


Those That Try The Hardest

by CreateInsanity



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Daryl Has Issues, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Implied Rick Grimes/Lori Grimes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con is not Daryl/Rick, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Student Daryl, Teacher Rick, attempted prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:11:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 44
Words: 170,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4041757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreateInsanity/pseuds/CreateInsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After failing a test, Daryl offers Rick sex in an effort to pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while!
> 
> Quick 1 hour writing challenge to try and get me working on the things I should be working on. - Ha ha how things have changed.
> 
> Warnings for - Rape/Non-con (not explicit) and Attempted Prostitution. More Details in End Notes.
> 
> I know nothing about the America school system but I tried my best! Sorry if I got it all wrong or offended anyone in anyway!

Daryl knew he would fail English.

First English test of the semester and he _knew_ , knew because failure was rooted deep in Dixon blood and the consequences of it too often exposed it.

Exposed the failure or exposed the blood? Who the hell knew, maybe it was a bit of both.

Daryl can’t say he isn’t used to it, because he really is. He knows disappointment like the back of his hand, knows that trying again after consecutive failure is the hardest thing he has ever continued to do. He also knows that he has to keep trying, because if he gets away with failing this one, if his Dad decides to just knock him about a bit and tell him to _‘get his illiterate head out his ass and learn’_ there will be another one and that will open up the possibility for more failure, for more consequences, for more hiding and lying and trying really, really hard to just do as his Daddy goddamn tells him.

The class rushes out, each person holding their test papers in varying states of excitement and trepidation.

He stays back, wonders if any of them are feeling the same crushing, paralyzing sense of fear he is, whether they’re just better at hiding it then he’ll ever be.

“Disappointed?” Mr Grimes says, cutting off Daryl’s view of the other students as he closes the door of his room and walks over to sit on his desk.

“I guess. I sort of-” _knew, he sort of knew._ But he can’t say that, knows that sounds too much like expectation, like he knew he was gonna fail because he didn’t try or didn’t study or some crap like that. Knowing sort of appoints the blame. “Was it a difficult test? Will you change the grade boundaries or somethin’?”

“I don’t know Daryl, I don’t think so, a lot of people did well.”

Daryl nods slightly, a hand beginning to tug at the loose threads hanging from the sleeve of his hoodie. He knows what that translates to, knows what Rick means, can hear every implication behind every word. I don’t know Daryl. _I’m trying to be polite to you but no._ I don’t think so. _Of course I’m not going to lower them for you_. A lot of people did well. _You’re the only one who failed._ Daryl brings his thumb up to his mouth, starts chewing on the corner of his nail.

“What’s wrong?” Because of course a damn high school teacher can pick up on anxiety.

“I just,” Daryl stops, doesn’t even know how to sum it up, doesn’t really know what to do. “Really needed to pass.”

“There’s always the next test, always more chances.”

Daryl huffs a little, under his breath, just to himself, glad when Mr Grimes shows no sign of having heard it. “Yeah…”

“You should really be heading home now Daryl, school’s ended, you’re free to go.”

Mr Grimes is right, he should go home. Should go and get it over with, go and deal with whatever’s coming like a man ‘cause it’s his own fault anyway. Go be ‘free’, ‘free to go’ like he actually wants to go, like being ‘free’ from anything is a realistic and achievable expectation for someone like him. He _should_ go, he should really, really go but he doesn’t want to and he can’t and there has to be a way that he can fix this.

“Daryl?” Mr Grimes says, lowering his head to be further in the line of Daryl’s sight. “Are you okay?”

Daryl nods, manages to get his feet under him enough to rise from his chair, to pick his shitty notebook off the desk and put it in his bag. He takes the first few steps towards the door, but can’t quite manage to get his feet to move past the front edge of his desk, can’t allow himself to leave without at least _trying_.

“Do you offer extra credit?” 

Mr Grimes looks up from where he’s started marking another classes’ papers, looking slightly confused as to why Daryl’s still in the room. “I’m afraid not, we’re not really encouraged to offer it either.”

Daryl runs his tongue over his bottom lip, twisting the strap of his bag between his hands as he leans back on his desk. “Would you _give_ extra credit?”

“I just said it’s not offere-”

“No, but would you give it.”

Mr Grimes puts his pen down on the papers, rolling it from side to side slightly beneath his hand. “Daryl, there’s no available extra credit and I cannot give it to you.”

“Please.” Daryl says and if Rick where any lesser of a man he’d give him the credit then and there. “I’ll do anything.”

“No Daryl, I can’t.” Rick says, ignoring what may or may not have been the offer of more that Rick would ever have been willing to take. “You’ll just have to study a bit harder next time.”

Daryl wants to say that he did study. That Mr Grimes had no idea how much he tried to study, and how hard it was when you had none of the normal resources available to you. That he spent all his spare time in the library because it was better than going home. But the library shuts at six and he can only get there by five and the librarian took him up on this offer but didn’t hold up on his part of the deal.

He supposes he could try going back to the library and doing it again, maybe suck the guy off _and_ let him fuck him? He did say he’d like a shot at his mouth next time.

But Philip was a bit of an asshole, hadn’t even moved from the front desk before he had Daryl bent over it, pulled Daryl’s hair damn near out of his skull and pushed his head so hard into the wood he’d had a headache for two days. He hadn’t prepped him either, hadn’t even considered the sachet of lube Daryl had stored in his pocket for occasions just like that one. The blood had eased the way a little bit after a while, but the bleeding didn’t really stop after, and the tears kept reopening, forcing Daryl to sit on his hip more than his ass whenever he sat down.

It had hurt for a long time and it was hard to study when Philip kept sitting down opposite him and telling him everything he wanted to do to him, running a gentle hand through his hair that turned heavy and constricting every time it reached his neck, forcing him over the nearest table and taking what he wanted regardless of what Daryl himself did.

“Please, Mr Grimes.” Daryl says, biting his lips at the shake of Mr Grimes’ head. “You can do whatever you want and I won’t say a thing.”

“Daryl I’m married.” Rick says, his own eyes flicking to the ring on his finger. “And I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“No one has to kn-”

“We’re in the middle of the school, cleaning staff are still around, other _teachers_ are still around and that’s even if I would consider taking an offer like this. Which I would not.” Rick himself runs a hand through his curls, not quite believing that one of his seventeen year old students is really offering him sex to pass a damn test.

“I can be really quiet.” Daryl says, taking a step forward when Rick takes one back. “Or you could gag me if you don’t believe-”

“Daryl!” Rick says, almost feeling bad about snapping at the damn deer in the headlights look the boy throws at him. “Stop. Right now. I don’t think you know what you’re offering, I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind. You need to go home, have a glass of water and sleep it off.”

“I don’t want to go home.” It’s so quiet that Rick can barely make it out, quiet enough for him to know that he wasn’t supposed to hear it, that Daryl might not have even meant to say it, that it would be wise not to comment on it.

“I really needed to pass.” Daryl says, louder this time, still not completely directed at Rick, but spoken with enough conscious thought for Rick to know he can answer it as if it was.

“You didn’t pass.” Rick says, watching the way Daryl’s head falls towards his chest and ducking his own head to catch his eyes. “But it’s okay that you didn’t.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” Daryl asks, keeping his eyes on the floor, his bangs falling over them like a shield. It’s not a very effective one and the way Daryl’s chin digs further into his chest under the continued pressure of Rick’s gaze shows how fragile it is, how easily it can crumble. “Nothing _I_ can do?”

Rick shakes his head, pretending not to notice the little distressed whine that slips out of Daryl’s lips, knowing that a sound that raw was probably unintentional.

“You haven’t put the marks in the system yet, you could change ‘em.”

Rick shakes his head even harder at that option, speaking once he remembers that Daryl still isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry Daryl, but I’m not doing this, I’m not changing anything. You failed the test.”

“Please, I know that I did, but I can’t fail it!” Rick doesn’t know how to deal with a situation like this. Student’s try for the extra credit grab all the time, laziness evident in their grades and enthusiasm for learning appearing too late to make any difference. But he’s never had a student, never the less a _male_ student, offer sex in exchange for a pass, or break down like this when the offer’s denied.

“You could let me retake it!” And good God, he looks desperate, eyes all wide and panicked and breathing far too labored, far too short and sharp. “You could fuck me, and then you could let me retake it.”

“Daryl-”

“I’ll do better, I promise I will and, and you can ask whenever you want, even if I’m not getting nothin’, even if I haven’t failed, I won’t tell nobody!”

Rick belatedly ponders just letting the kid off, letting him pass, because this obviously means something more than pride, more than an effort to avoid a disappointed look from a parent. He also knows that he can’t condone this, can’t, in any backhanded way encourage the type of thing Daryl is offering, can’t let him think that it’s an acceptable way to get things.

And more than that, it just isn’t fair on every other student, students that have worked hard to get their grades and who’s efforts have paid off and been reflected in their work. To give a good mark to someone who hasn’t earned it, who didn’t achieve it by themselves, belittles everyone else’s work.

“No Daryl.” Rick says, holding a hand up to halt Daryl’s interruption. “And that’s final.”

“Please. Please, you, you don’t understand.”

“That’s _final_.” Rick says, sitting down at his desk once again and not looking in Daryl’s direction, re-starting his interrupted marking. Daryl remains where he’s standing, the fist clenched around his test paper shaking slightly and his eyes blinking much faster than normal to trap the tears that try to escape them. Rick glances up at him once, looking back down at his papers with a sigh, one of equal parts sadness and exasperation. 

“Go home, Daryl.”

Rick watches Daryl take a deep, shuddering breath, licking his lips slightly and looking as if he might say something more before he thinks better of it. Picking up his discarded bag and putting his paper into it, Daryl shrugs it onto his shoulder, walks towards the door like he’s walking to his death, shoulders heavy under the weight of such a small thing.

“I’m sorry.” He says, standing just beyond the door and shutting it as soon as he’s said it. Although the meaning appears obvious, Rick can’t help but think that Daryl means something broader then misplaced propositions.

The pupils received the tests back on the Friday, and come Monday morning, Rick hopes that the whole incident with Daryl is forgotten, that whatever the boy must’ve been on will have washed clear from his system and taken any memory of the things he said along with it.

But Daryl doesn’t come to class for four days and for a while Rick reckons he must remember, that it must be embarrassment. He imagines that Daryl must’ve woken up, recovered from whatever nasty trip he’d been on and realized what he had offered and to whom he offered it. He can’t blame the kid for not coming in, though it doesn’t bode well for him on the next test and Rick really doesn’t want a repeat performance.

When Rick does see Daryl, he doesn’t actually see Daryl, more the vague Y shape of his body and the loose ends of his hair from underneath the black hoodie he has pulled over his head.

“Daryl.” Rick calls as the class starts. “Take your hood down please, this is a classroom.” 

While he takes the hood down, he doesn’t lift his head up, keeps his hair in front of his face, his crumbled shield in place, the fragile defense all he has left to offer.

Rick only notices the bruises when he’s handing out the books, stops slightly at Daryl’s desk and places it down much more lightly then he had on any others, well-practiced in preserving dubiously strained nerves.

“Speak to me after class please.” He almost doesn’t say it, after what happened last time Daryl was alone in a room with him, but something about sad blue eyes ringed with black bruises makes the boy look so incredibly tired, so incredibly weary and Rick almost thinks he preferred it when Daryl was propositioning him.

Daryl waits at his desk when the class leaves, tilts his head so he can look out of the window while still covering the worst areas of his face.

Rick walks to the desk in front of him, resists the urge to cross his arms for fear of Daryl picking up on the closed off body language and instead leans back to offer him more room.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Daryl says. “Hunting accident. It was my fault.”

Rick doesn’t say anything, but he must’ve looked expectant, because Daryl continues without prompt.

“I was stupid, I can do better! I really can.” Rick doesn’t think he’s talking about hunting, doesn’t think that’s where all this came from, but he nods along anyway, watches the way the tense line of Daryl’s shoulders relaxes just slightly with the sign of approval.

“I’ll do better next time.”

“Okay Daryl.” Rick says, and it doesn’t seem like the right thing to say, sounds too dismissive for such a sensitive situation. It’s still the only thing he can think of that won’t make things worse.

“I will!” Daryl says, shaking like a damn leaf and looking slightly to the left of Rick rather than directly at him. “I know you think I won’t, but I will. I can go back to the library and ask to stay longer, and I’m better than I was!” Rick isn’t stupid enough to think Daryl’s talking about his English but still can’t think of a way to stop him without tipping the balance on an already precarious situation. 

But Daryl stops himself, closes his mouth like he didn’t realize how much he was talking. He picks up his bag, turns away from Rick and limps towards the door, stopping with one foot past the threshold of the classroom and turning to look back over his shoulder.

“I’ll do better next time Mr Grimes.” Daryl says, nodding his head like he’s trying to convince himself rather than his teacher. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Daryl doesn’t do better on the next test and he doesn’t even bother to beg, just comes in to school battered and bruised and writes down everything Rick says, his hands shaking over the paper like it hurts to keep trying.

He attends every revision session, waits until the class has left and asks for every extra revision source Rick has to offer.

He’s doing everything right, but it’s never enough.

And Rick finds it extremely sad that sometimes those that try the hardest, struggle the most.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to try turning this into a Multi-Chapter fic.
> 
> I'll try my best.
> 
> Wish me luck XD

Daryl’s bruises never really seem to go away. They cling to his skin like ink, sink into his pores and stain abstract patterns onto the white canvas of his skin like art, like tattoos. 

There are so many different colors, colors that jump out at you, remind you that they change but that it takes time, that bruises happen quickly but fade out slowly and if anything the slowly dwindling yellow colors look more painful than the blackest of marks.

Rick’s head whispers _‘maybe he’s just a rowdy kid’_ at the same time it hisses _‘you’re a fucking idiot._ ’

Something in him says that the bruises are his fault, that one of his students _getting hurt_ is his fault. Part of Rick wonders if Daryl would’ve come into school looking like that if Rick had changed his damn mark, given into the begging and let him pass. Another part reminds him that it would be unfair to do that, that it would not only be wrong but go against everything he was supposed to do as a teacher. 

Daryl failed his second test, and the faded echo of _‘I’ll do better next time Mr. Grimes’_ doesn’t sound like a lie so much as a promise that couldn’t be kept.

There remains a whispered feeling of wrongdoing curling itself into Rick’s gut, a lingering sense of mistake.

He feels like he failed, and although for quite a long time he’s not entirely sure why he feels like a failure, he figures it probably has something to do with the student trying very hard not to cry as he packs away his things.

Daryl stands at his desk quietly, back turned from Rick, and Rick wouldn’t even realize he was crying if it wasn’t for the shake that establishes itself into his shoulders. 

Rick watches him silently, not entirely sure what to do, as Daryl picks up his test paper and puts it in his bag oh so carefully, like it means something even though he failed, even though it still wasn’t good enough. Rick averts his eyes slightly as Daryl turns, the bruises still lingering on his face worse than the shake of his shoulders ever had any right to be.

Daryl hadn’t talked to Rick at all since the ‘hunting accident story’ and although Rick knew that was probably the most appropriate thing to happen, he almost wants him to come over and ask for extra credit again, if only so Rick can try and handle the whole situation better a second time.

But Daryl doesn’t talk, doesn’t even glance in Rick’s direction. He keeps his head down and walks to the door and Rick has the lingering hope that he’ll stop half way out the doorway, look back over his shoulder and say ‘I’ll do better next time’ or some vaguely similar version of it, if only so Rick knew the kid was still trying, that he still wanted to try.

No words fall from Daryl’s tightly pinched lips, and his motions do not falter, carrying him away from Rick in all the ways Rick both hoped for and never wanted to see.

Rick sighs, not caring about crumpled paperwork as he lifts his elbows to the table, resting his hands over his eyes and digging his fingers into his eye sockets. For a while, he tries to massage out the feeling of ‘fuck up’ from where it’s printed itself to the inside of his skull, but his eyes protest in flares of pain and Rick has the terrible realization that a lot of the time mistakes are not easily fixed.

Gathering his half crumpled pile of marking from his desk, Rick grabs his own bag and heads to the staff lounge, hopes for a reprieve from the conflicted, confined feel of the room he leaves behind. 

The room is near empty when he reaches it, most teachers opting to head for the quiet reprieve of home as soon as the students have left. Abraham, the male P.E teacher loiters in the corner, talking to the female P.E teacher with a hand against the wall beside her head. Rick knows he’s either flirting of harassing Rosita, but from this distance it’s hard to tell and everyone knows Rosita doesn’t mind it either way.

The only other person in the room is Carol, Georgia State’s only and severely underestimated Psychology teacher. Rick’s known Carol since the first day he worked here, remembered how different she’d been back then, the bruises that had marred her arms and the quiet uttering of ‘I fell down the stairs’ following her like a plague. Rick tilts his head, judges the ramifications of getting involved in the personal life of a student who had already offered sex once.

Moving to get himself a coffee, Rick thinks of how sad Carol used to look, how he’d often looked at her and though she was too far removed from happiness to ever feel it again. Looking back at her know he realizes how wrong he had been, how wrong he continues to be about fragile situations and the his misplaced opinion of the possible damage inflicted by helping hands.

Rick heads over to Carol, at the very least reasoning that out of everyone, the psychology teacher would be the least likely to judge. Whether he’s afraid of her judging Daryl or himself he doesn’t know. 

Carol looks up as he sits beside her, her hands cradling a mug of coffee and a stack of papers balanced on the cross of her knees. A red pen halfheartedly dangles from her right hand, forced to sit at an odd angle against her fingers because of the mug and the red notes scattering each essay tells Rick he’s interrupted her marking.

Normally he’d be polite, get up and leave and come back when she isn’t busy, but something in his face must betray his turmoil because she doesn’t even hesitate in dropping everything and leaning forwards onto her arms to listen.

“One of my students propositioned me last week.” He says. It's direct, straight to the point and although the way she sits back slightly displays a bit of Carol’s shock, she makes no move to interrupt him.

A psychologist through and through, Rick supposes.

“We had a test and he failed it, stayed in the classroom until everyone had gone and then asked me to fuck him in exchange for a pass.”

Carol reaches for her coffee mug once again, taking a long sip of it before she looks up to meet Rick’s eyes, tapping the tip of her forefinger onto the ceramic edge.

“What did you say?” She asks, her breath sending the steam off in abstract patterns, distorting his view of her face ever so slightly.

“I told him no.” Rick picks up his own mug, cradles his own hand around it and adopts her position “That I was married and I didn’t like what he was implying.”

“He implied it?” Carol raises a single eyebrow with the question, leans further towards Rick as another member of staff enters the room. 

Rick waits, watching as Andrea moves past their position on her way to the coffee machine, only relaxing enough to speak when she’s as out of earshot as he can be in the small room.

“At first.”

“And then?”

“He outright said it.” Rick says, raising his shoulder in a shrug and dropping one hand from his coffee mug to run it through his hair. Carol, no doubt sensing his unease at the entire situation, dropped one of her own hands to catch his, giving it a slight squeeze before moving it away.

“What was he like, his attitude?” It’s not a change of subject, but it’s a change of direction, and Rick’s glad for any change he can get.

“Calm, at first, if a bit tense, but he got so insistent, was rambling, shaking.” 

It sounds so real when he says it, sounds like all the body language signs of panic rolled into one and Rick can’t understand why he didn’t see that when it was happening. He knows that he should’ve done more to help, that as a teacher it was part of his responsibility to ensure the welfare of every student. But Daryl, Daryl slips through the cracks, clings to the edge of the radar and only shows up enough to remind Rick he’s there. His proposition, in all honesty, was probably the first conversation they’ve ever had.

He’s been a teacher 10 years, has never questioned his capabilities in the position. But he’s only known Daryl a couple of months, and it already feels like he’s failed him.

“He was scared.” Carol says and Rick nods his head at the assessment.

“I think so.”

Carol falls quiet for a while, leaning back and away from Rick slightly and crossing her legs back over one another. She looks thoughtful for a while, debating what to say next and Rick knows he’d probably follow whatever she says to do if it meant undoing whatever he’s already done.

“You need to tell Hershel.” She says at last and although Rick can see the benefit he’s really not sure that’s going to help anything.

“I don’t think he would appreciate me telling the Principal.”

“As hard as it is, this isn’t about what he wants, it’s about what he needs, what’s best for him.” Her words are gentle, like she’s trying to reassure him at the same time that she’s trying to teach him and as reassured as Rick want’s to feel, it’s surprisingly difficult to not equate what Daryl wants and what he needs into the same thing.

_Well he wanted you to have sex with him. He certainly didn’t need it._

“I just don’t want to mess things up anymore then I already have.” He admits, knowing that he did mess up, that it’s a very true assessment, that there are 101 way he could’ve handled the situation better than he had. “He hasn’t said a word to me since he said he’d do better on the next test.”

“Did he do better?”

“No.” 

Carol docks her head slightly, looking briefly back down to her papers but making no movement to pick them up, and Rick couldn’t possibly explain how reassuring it is for her to warrant this as more important. “He’s probably feeling like he’s failed and there must be someone in his life who’s influencing that, making him think that it isn’t acceptable to fail, that it isn’t a normal part of learning.”

The alarm on her watch interrupts her, the five o’clock mark fast approaching and although Rick knows this is the time she heads home, she does nothing more than arrange her papers into a neater pile and place her discarded red pen atop them.

“You’re a good teacher Rick, don’t forget that, and I know that the relationship you have with your students is important to you.” She’s speaking louder now that the room is empty, more comfortable in leaning back and talking to him at a normal volume. “But you can’t help him by being his friend, not at first, maybe not at all.”

“But I can help him?” It’s a question, tentative, because Rick’s really not sure himself. “Even if it hurts him?”

“Help always comes with a small degree of hurt, it means change, means reliance, a debt. If this boy’s in the situation I think he’s in, none of those things will be welcomed.” Carol says, placing a gentle hand on Rick’s knee and giving it an encouraging squeeze, mirroring the smile Rick throws at her. “But eventually, they’ll be appreciated.”

“You think he’s being abused?” Rick asks, the first time he actually labelled it as such, knowing things he previously had not wanted to know and accepting that it was the case.

“What did he look like, when you saw him next?” Carol’s voice has dipped again, even though the room remains empty and Rick thinks that there may even be a little bit of sympathy behind the carefully ‘caring but closed off’ expression Carol usually adopts these days.

“Bruised everywhere, limping.”

Carol nods, and although Rick doesn’t realize it, he is too. “What does that sound like Rick?”

“It sounds like abuse.”

For a second, Rick feels like batting himself around the head. All of Daryl’s behaviors were so textbook, so obvious and Rick’s been a teacher long enough to not only have known about, but also experienced the amount of abuse cases that never get stopped, the amount of times everyone realizes but no one helps. 

He never actually thought he’d be that type of teacher.

“You didn’t notice, and that’s hurting you.” Carol says, reading him like he's an open book.

“It’s so obvious.”

And it is, despite the peculiarities of the way they were shown, despite the curve ball of the proposition, there was no mistaking that Daryl had be so _scared_ , so panicked and that both of those things were centered around something. That both of those things stemmed from the same place, that Daryl’s fear wasn’t irrational at all, it was focused, it was precise.

 _I don’t want to go home_. Daryl had said, and Rick labelled it as fragile, forced it to the back of his mind and didn’t comment on it because he couldn’t handle the potential reactions.

Carol stands, picking up her papers and making her way to the door, looking over her shoulder just like Daryl had. “It is obvious.” She says and it sound like an accumulation of all Rick’s failures. “But only when you know what to look for, only when you care to look.”

Carol shuts the door behind her, leaves Rick alone to hold onto a cold cup of coffee and contemplate how to fix something when you don’t know the extent of the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this, I'm aiming for about 17 chapters at the moment, but I can't be exactly sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shane features quite heavily in this chapter and although he is a bit of an ass, he will sort himself out. I love Shane, so please don't be offended, I just needed to get the point across :)
> 
> Some of the conversation in this might seem similar to the conversation Rick had with Carol, but I wanted him to get the opinions of others and to get Shane's advice considering Shane know if Daryl could get in trouble with the law for what he's doing.
> 
> Daryl is in this chapter for those who have missed him, and the following two chapter are completely Daryl based.
> 
> I also wanted to say that this will be Rickyl, but for now at least Rick is still married to Lori.
> 
> Enjoy!

Rick heads home that evening with the steadfast resolve to do _something._

Even if something turned out to be wrong, even if interfering was the wrong move and messed everything up and made things ten times worse than they already were, Rick could at least sleep at night knowing that he _tried._ He took comfort in the fact that something is normally better than nothing.

Rick parks his car in the driveway, resting his head on his hands as they grip the steering wheel. _You’re not a bad teacher Rick._ He tells himself. _You just made a bad call._

Leaning back and running his hands over his face, Rick leans over the center console and picks up his bag, telling himself to go in the house and hug his family and stop thinking about it at times when he could do nothing about it. 

Opening the front door was a chaotic event in the Grimes household, and it took Rick a couple of seconds to make sure he had a hand free for damage control. Carl came running as soon as the door opened, a floppy eared Collie bounding along beside him and Rick tried his best to both hug his son and use his knee to gently nudge the Collie back into the house, using a hip to shut the door behind him.

“Down Lacy.” Rick hums, trying to make sure the collie will remain planted on all fours so he can actually greet his son properly.

“Hi Carl.” Rick says finally, dropping his bag behind him towards the general area of the coat rack and kneeling down so his son can hug him properly, throwing both his skinny arms around Rick’s neck and digging his head into his shoulder. Rick knows theses greeting won’t last forever, but he enjoys them while they’re still given to him.

“Dad’s home!” Carl yells, at a volume that’s slightly too loud for his proximity to Rick’s ear, before pulling away from him and taking his hand. He puts his other one loosely over Lacy’s collar and leads them both to the kitchen. Rick has a mild moment of contemplation over being put in the same position as the dog, but decides that Carl’s too young to mean anything by it. “Guess who’s here!”

Rick opens his mouth to guess the most obvious answer, knowing that the only person who regularly visits that Carl remains excited to see is Shane. He never actually gets the opportunity to guess, seeing as Carl has already pulled him into the kitchen and practically dumped him in the chair beside the very person he was expecting to see.

Rick feels a smile creep onto his face as Carl climbs onto his lap, reaching out a hand to grasp Shane’s and pulling him into an awkward side hug that tries it’s best to avoid the rounded edge of the table.

“It’s been a while, man.” Shane says, his smile wide enough to show of the whites of his teeth. Rick looks over to Lori, whose dishing dinner out onto four separate plates. She smiles back at him, bringing the plates over and laying them on the table, gentle telling Carl to ‘get of his father’s lap and let him eat.’

“It has, it really has.” Rick says, pulling out Carl’s chair for him to sit down, before turning back to his food and digging in.

“How’s the teaching been going?” Shane says, always the starter of conversations. It gives Rick the smallest fraction of pause, because he’s never had so many things he wants to factor into the answer before. He plays it off by humming appreciatively, swallowing his food and mumbling a compliment to Lori, who smiles at him, glances at Shane and continues eating herself.

“It’s been good.” Rick says at last. “The kids are great this year, lot of hard workers. How’s the transfer been treating you?”

Shane laughs, coughing slightly at the food that tries to fall down the wrong way. “I’ll tell you man, there’s a lot more action up in Atlanta then there ever was here.” 

“Really?” Carl says, all excited and enthusiastic. Rick sits back in his chair and enjoys his meal, knowing that Shane fits into the role of storyteller wonderfully and is charismatic enough to entertain a table for hours.

Eventually, it’s just the three of them. The plates have been washed, Carl’s in bed and Shane’s entertaining them with the stories that were slightly too R-Rated to say in front of Carl.

“I needed to ask you something.” Rick says when Shane stops and silence has descended into the kitchen, Shane’s face falling serious at the look on Rick’s own.

“What’s happened, brother?” Shane says, always able to read him like a book, but only ever after Rick’s opened up the first few pages.

Rick takes a breath, cranks he neck to either side, tries to puzzle out how to say this in a way that allows for a straight answer rather than a playful jibe, knowing the Shane would rather play of a story like this with humor instead of realizing the seriousness of it.

“One of my student’s propositioned me last week.” As expected and for all of Shane’s previous seriousness, he starts laughing as soon as it’s said. Rick makes eye contact with him, shakes his head and tries to show how unfunny the situation really is. Lori herself looks more shocked then amused.

“One of the girls wanted to have sex with you?” She asked, ignoring Rick’s shaking head and carrying on regardless. “Aren’t they only seventeen Rick, you could get in serious trouble if you don’t report this, they’re your students.”

Rick sighs, bringing a hand up to rub against his eyes, grateful at the very least that Shane’s humor towards the situation has finally run out enough for him to shut up. He knew they’d do this, just question and query and judge and not listen to a single thing he wanted to say. 

It was a particularly prominent fault of Lori’s, that for all the times she expresses a desire for him to speak, she never actually gives him the opportunity to do so.

“It was one of the boys.” He says, holding up a hand to halt any more of her questions and although that would normally send her into a rant, it seemed for once she was willing to let him do what she always wanted him to. “He failed his test, didn’t leave when the other’s did. He came up to me in a panic and said he needed to pass, that he’d do anything.”

“So he just implied it or did he…?” Shane asks, and for all the misplaced humor in the world when Rick set the mood of the conversation Shane was damn good at following it. 

“No he said it,” Rick says, giving in to Shane’s ‘keep going’ look with a searching wave of his hand. “’You could fuck me and then you could let me retake it.’ Or something along those lines.” 

“And what did you do?” Lori asks.

“I said no, obviously Lori, he’s my student, he’s seventeen.” Rick says, surprised and just a little bit hurt that she even wondered what he’d do in a situation like that.

“You’re asking Shane, Rick, Shane who’s a cop. What did you expect me to think?” Lori says, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest like she has no more to offer to the conversation.

“I wanted to know,” Rick starts, turning his attention back to Shane. “If he could get in trouble. I don’t think this is the first time he’s offered sex for favours. I mean, does that count as prostitution?”

“It’s tricky, brother.” Shane says, shaking his head. “Most people will look at a situation like that and think you’re to blame. Do you think this kid would say anything, play it up?”

“No, Daryl isn’t like –” Rick stops when Shane laughs, proper tipping his head back, throaty laughter. “What’s so funny?” Rick asks, noticing the same confusion on Lori’s face.

“Daryl?” Shane asks, “As in, Daryl Dixon.” Rick nods and Shane laughs again, dropping his hands onto the table and rocking into the slightly. “Why didn’t you say so man, hell, when I was working here we dragged the Dixon brother’s into the station every other weekend?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Ain’t no one ever gonna believe a word that kid says.” Shane says, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table like the whole things been solved, like there wasn’t a problem to begin with. “You could _actually_ fuck him, and no one would believe him if he told anyone. ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ type, you know.”

“Shane, that isn’t funny.” Rick says, standing from his chair when Shane doesn’t sober up and making his way through into the living room, needing to put some distance between himself and his best friend so he wouldn’t punch him.

“The hell do you mean man, course it’s funny.” Shane rises from his own chair behind him “Teaching stripped you of all your humor?”

“He’s seventeen.” _And for the last week he’s walked into my classroom beaten black and blue._

“Old enough to know better.”

“You’re telling me that if Carl, if my _son_ , was seventeen and his teacher took advantage of him, he should _‘know better’_?”

“Rick!” Lori says, probably attempting to stop the whole situation but remaining ignored by the both of them.

“That’s different man!”

“It’s no different Shane.” Shane goes to interrupt him, but Rick steps into his space. “No. It isn’t the slightest bit different.”

Rick turns away from him, paces in a semi - circle around the far edge of the room. He stops by the window, turning back towards Shane and shaking his head in blatant shock.

“God what happened to you?” Rick asks “I was so proud of you when you said you wanted to be a cop. I thought you were going to help people!” Lori tries to hold a hand up against both of their chests, keeping them as far apart as she can, but Shane nudges her out of the way, steps closer to Rick. “Is this what the Atlanta police force is like? You going all corrupt cop on me now Shane.”

“I help people man.”

“Yeah, only if they fit the bill.” 

Shane swings at him, Rick ducking the punch and bringing his own fist up to Shane’s gut. Shane let’s go of him, stumbles back and he’s just heading for another go when Lori steps back between them, pushing the both of them away from each other and holding them there.

“Get out.” She says and Rick keeps looking at Shane until he realizes Lori isn’t speaking to him.

“Excuse me.”

“Get out, you started this.”

“I started-”Rick starts, staring at her in complete disbelief, pointing both hands towards himself in shock at her accusation. “Did you just hear a _word_ -”

“Get out, come back in the morning, once you’ve calmed down.” 

Rick shakes his head, holds eye contact with Shane for a second longer before walking to the door, grabbing his keys, getting into his car and driving until the morning sun paints the sky a bloody, tarnished red.

When Rick gets to work the next day he knows he looks like shit. After only stopping at home long enough to have a shower and say goodbye to Carl he’s absolutely exhausted as well as ridiculously hungry. He manages to get through the day with the help of the staff room coffee machine, Carol throwing him meaningful glances every time his gaze travels past her own.

The last class he has is English, and Rick thanks every God he can think of that it’s a Friday, because the level of exhaustion he’s reached is at a new and precariously unbalanced level.

The class files in and Rick tries not to focus too much on Daryl as he makes his way through the lesson, tells himself to get on and teach now and talk to the kid as soon as the class has left. It places a stinging sense on anxiety into his gut, but the unavoidable and pre-established feeling of failure every time he see’s discolored skin overrules it.

Class ends and Rick’s attention refocuses itself on Daryl, feeling lucky that the kid likes to leave a classroom last, to wait for others to leave before leaving himself.

“Daryl.” He calls out as the boy goes to walk away, remembering Carol’s advice from the day before. “Could I talk to you a second.”

Daryl walks towards him, stands at the edge of his desk with his head bowed and his eyes downcast, the purpling bruises round his eyes making him look as tired as Rick feels.

“I was wondering if you would come talk to the Principal with me.” Rick says, deciding to forgo any aversion tactics in favor of blatant and uncensored truth.

Daryl recoils like he’s been slapped, his eyes shooting up to Rick’s own. Rick flinches slightly, in his head at least, not because of Daryl himself, but because of the painful looking burst blood vessels that color the white of his left eye a vibrant red. Daryl looks down again quickly, almost like he can see the things Rick is thinking and needs to hide from them, needs to hide the source of them before he can see anything else and think into it more than Daryl ever wanted anyone to.

“Am I in trouble?” He asks quietly, slowly, shifting his weight onto his right leg and immediately back onto his left. “Because of what I said.”

“No, you’re not in any trouble.”

“Then why are you asking me to go.”

“I just want you to talk to him, about things.” Rick trails off, not quite knowing how to describe this in a way that Daryl won’t object to, wishing that Carol was here right now to notice how he’s feeling and tell him what to do.

“What things?” Daryl asks, and even though he’s not looking at Rick, he knows those bloodshot eyes have narrowed in suspicion.

“Just about yourself, how you're feeling.” Rick says, easing into it as gently as he can, trying to test the waters he’s already practically drowning in. “Things at home.”

“I’m fine.” Daryl says, insistent, tightening his grip on the strap of his bag and shifting his eyes to glance at the door.

Rick looks at him for a while, knowing that he was probably messing this up all over again and not knowing how to go about fixing it. “I never said you weren’t."

“I don’t need to talk to anyone.”

“Yes, you do.” He doesn’t even mean to say it, not really, but it happens anyway and Rick can’t exactly take it back and even though he’s played them all wrong at least his cards are on the damn table.

“What they hell are you saying?” Daryl says, his eyes flashing up to Ricks. They’re suddenly very hard to meet, and Rick’s not sure whether it’s the emotion in them, or the current state of them. “Man you don’t know nothing! Think I need to talk to some damn old man ‘bout my life, like everything’ll get better!”

“Daryl, this is still a classroom.” Rick says, trying to bring the conversation back down to normal pace, to normal volume. “I’m still your teacher. I’m trying to help.”

“Help!” Daryl shouts, looking at Rick in a way that is completely crushing, forces him to focus on the water that builds up against Daryl’s waterline. “I asked you for help!”

Daryl looks away, wipes angrily at his eyes with the back of his forearm, hissing slightly at the pressure that puts on his bruises. Rick watches him compose himself, wanting to reach out to stop him when he reaches for his bag again but not yet comfortable with breaching the physical contact barrier they’re still just about clinging to. 

“What do you want from me?” It’s so much quieter than before, resigned, and Rick can’t help feeling that this kid would do whatever he asked just to get out of the conversation, just to get away from it all.

“Nothing, not a damn thing.” Rick says, as earnestly as he possible can, the swear thrown in unintentionally but giving the admission a sense of informality none the less.

“Nah,” Daryl says, and the laugh that falls from his lips sounds more like a sob, his head tilting to the side and a bitter smile curling the edges of his lips. It’s not a happy expression, but Rick can’t recall ever seeing one on him. “You can’t help me.” 

“Daryl-” Rick starts, but Daryl’s walking towards the door and then he’s already gone.

It stings like Deja-vu and Rick feels the weight of failure fall straight back down to his shoulders, because even when he gets the chance to try, he can’t get past Daryl allowing him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if some of these chapters seem a bit everywhere, I never really intended this to be a story, but I'm having fun making it into one! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone for all the support I've been receiving on this fic! Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks, I really appreciate them! 
> 
> WARNING for this chapter as there is some molestation. 
> 
> Joe is also Claimer Joe, for all those who are wondering.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was the weekend and weekends in the Dixon household meant a Saturday fending for himself and a Sunday of trying his best to survive Dad’s friends.

For such a lousy person, he has more friends than Daryl could ever imagine having. He often wonders if there’s something in that, something he’s missing, that maybe he should take a leaf out of Dad’s book more often and be an asshole. A lot of the time Daryl’s pretty sure he already is.

The lot of them come over every Sunday, always come to the Dixon house because Will Dixon has the best moonshine stock in the whole of Georgia and no wife to warn them all about going blind. 

It’s a damn free for all from noon on Sunday till noon on Monday, drinking booze, chewing tobacco and pissing each other off until there’s a brawl. It’s probably a good thing Daryl has to leave for school because they wake up more rowdy then when they were drunk.

It didn’t always used to be this bad, and that’s something that Daryl’s found difficult to admit to for a long time.

Dad used to have a job. They had a less shitty house. They had Mom.

Daryl had never really given much thought to the life he lived before all of this shit. He used to wake up, get dressed, head off to school and give Dad a beer on the way out because six times out of ten he could avoid a fist to the face if he intercepted it with alcohol. 

He’d walk to school, do whatever he had to do there, walk back home and go hunting before Merle tried to drag him out on one of his bar crawls or drug deals. 

He’d catch whatever he could, take it home, prepare it and take some upstairs to Mom, cause ever since he’d been born and she got that postpartum depression shit she never really left her bed. 

He’d eat some himself, try to decide whether his Dad would want or not want any (ultimately get it wrong), and busy himself with throwing some of Dad’s cheap whiskey over his back and hoping this particular set of lashes didn’t get infected. 

It hadn’t been happy, it hadn’t been exciting, and it certainly hadn’t been the way Daryl ever hoped his life would play out; but it had been a routine and Daryl had clung to it like a lifeline because it was all he really had.

Then Mom had gone up in smoke, and all in all it wasn’t so much the fact that she died that affected Daryl (because she’d never really been there to start with), rather than the fact that she burnt down half the house on her way out.

He’d never really thought how much of his daily activities used to revolve around the house he lived in, the little part of the woods he grew up. It was the house he’d been born in, the woods Merle’d taught him to hunt in, it was by the lake he’d first swum in, the trees he’d hide behind when Dad got was the wrong combination of drunk and mad at the world and picked up a knife instead of a belt.

He knew how to survive in that place.

It’d been a constant struggle to grow up tweaking activities, settling into the little inconsistencies that flared up every now and again that were predictable enough to be bearable, planning out routes and trails and hiding places, figuring out tips and tricks of how to live life as a Dixon because it’s always been really damn hard to do. 

And he supposed Mom had just been doing the opposite.

While he’d been trying to figure out how to live, she’d been figuring out how to die.

In a way he was slightly envious, because she’d been done, a second’s thought, a second’s action and the consequences of it just tumbled themselves right into place. It was so easy, almost accidental in its efficiency, completely random in the exact ramifications of it and here he was 17 years in and all his careful considerations counted for nothing.

Her dying the way she did, had completely destroyed all the little ways Daryl had tried so hard to _live_.

Because she’d opted out.

Because she’d burnt down half the fucking house.

Because she’d destroyed the basis of their shitty life.

Because they'd had to move.

It wasn’t like it was far, it was a goddamn hop, skip and a jump to the other side of the woods.

But it was a different school district and it was a different area and it was a different house.

And just like that, Daryl’s routine, his coping mechanism, his guide to surviving a shitty life with a shitty family, had gone up in smoke.

Just like Mom.

Nowadays, Daryl’s sort of glad Mom burned to death when she did. If only so she didn’t have to see just how low her husband could stoop, to have to deal with the unsteady advances of all of his friends. The parties are the only time he ever sees his Dad happy, and he supposes its payment enough to be miserable if only so he isn’t beat.

To be honest, this party is turning out to be one of his Dad's better ones.

No one’s been beaten, the ‘wrestling’ hasn’t started yet and there’s still enough alcohol to keep everyone happy.

They’re leaving Daryl alone as well, which always acts as a bonus.

He feels loose limbed, as relaxed as he can ever remember himself feeling now that his Dad’s passed out and he can feel himself being lulled into something approaching sleep by the dull, lamp lit lighting of the kitchen. Daryl didn’t immediately notice the man who sat himself onto the stool next to him, not until he actually spoke.

“How old are you, kid?”

Daryl wouldn’t have thought the man was talking to him, but no one else was around and he was probably the only person here this guy didn’t already know.

“Ain’t you a little old to be talking to ‘kids’?” It was supposed to sound threatening, something Daryl thought he might picked up on after hearing it so damn much, but the guy just laughs, putting his drink down on the counter top and folding both arms on top of it. The guy must be about 60, grey hair falling into his eyes and brushing against his cheeks. He’s got the denim and leather look going on and the fabrics bunch and shift as he lifts a hand to rub at the white hair coating his chin. Daryl knows an asshole when he sees one, and this guy looks like he fits the bill.

“You’re a little spitfire, ain’t ya. I like that.” Asshole licks his bottom lip, looking at Daryl in a way he doesn’t understand past the discomfort it causes. “What’s your name?”

Daryl gets up, uncomfortable and not entirely sure what to do about it, pushing of the counter and turning around to walk to his room.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Asshole says, grabbing his wrist, forcing Daryl to stop and look back at him, trying to pull his arm away quietly and hoping he won’t wake anyone up. “Ain’t no need for all that, just wanna talk is all. Man to man, friendly conversation.”

Daryl isn’t convinced, makes no move to sit back down, just looks down at the hand on his wrist and try's to will the guy into letting him go. 

Asshole looks at him for what feels like a long time before finally letting go of his wrist, looking down again with a sigh. “I’m sorry, this got off to a bad start.” 

Daryl feels like he should leave while he’s got the chance, but he knows he has nowhere to go but his room and that means walking through a room full of drunk, sleeping rednecks and right now some creepy guy seems like a damn walk in the park compared to that shit hole. He even said sorry, and Daryl knows how often apologies can be meaningless but can’t deny how nice it is to hear one anyway.

“Do you want a drink?” The guy says, walking to Daryl’s fridge like he isn’t in Daryl's own house, offering Daryl his own damn beer.

“There should probably be one person who isn’t drunk off their ass tonight, old man.” Daryl remains standing, not wanting to sit down again and unbalance the field, feeling calmer at the similar positions they've adopted.

“Now, I never said it had to be alcoholic.” The guy says, walking over to where Daryl is stood and leaning over him to grab his own beer. He pats the stool next to his, motioning for Daryl to reclaim his seat. “Sit back down, I’ll get you a coke or something, you like coke?”

“I don’t think we have it.” Daryl says, but sits down regardless, figures feeling uncomfortable is a small price to pay for getting on the guy’s good side.

“Huh, well you gotta have OJ, I guess that’ll have to do you.” The guy gives him an odd look before turning back to fridge, pulling the juice out of the fridge at the same time that he finishes his own drink, using his glass to pour Daryl’s and dropping it beside him with a wink and a nudge. 

Daryl stares resolutely at the grain of the shitty wood making up the counter top, half-heartedly listening to the guy talk but not really taking in what he’s saying. He doesn’t look up until the guy picks up his glass again, placing it in front of him much more insistently then the first and giving him a look that he thinks must mean something, but can’t decipher. 

The guy doesn’t speak until Daryl takes his first sip, cautious at the taste but finding it altogether normal, refreshing almost.

“You never did tell me your name.” The guy spoke as he moved, resting his head against the arm he has placed on the bar and watching Daryl with a level of intent that almost makes him wish he’d risked the whole ‘sleeping lions’ thing in the next room. Almost.

“It’s Daryl.”

“Daryl Dixon?” Asshole says, twisting his lips around the words like he’s caressing them. “DD hey, reminds me of Daisy Duke. I always did think you Dixons would dress up as pretty little shits.”

“Dad would knock you out if he heard you say that.” Asshole laughs and Daryl wonders if he thinks he’s joking.

“Well it’s very nice to meet you Daryl, I’m Joe.”

Daryl thinks Asshole fits a little better, but he’s not gonna tell ‘Joe’ that.

“You never did tell me your age.” Daryl’s doesn’t answer, and he’s not sure whether Joe actually does keep moving closer to him or whether he’s imagining it, but he scoots his stool further over anyway, taking little sips from his drink and trying not to look as out of his depth as he feels.

“Where’s your Mom then kiddo, your Dad always gets funny about it when I ask?”

“Dead.”

“Hmm.” Joe doesn’t say sorry, and in a weird way Daryl appreciates it, he doesn’t think Joe would’ve meant it anyway.

Daryl startles when he feels a hand come to rest on his thigh, tries to move away. It doesn’t work, only makes Joe tighten his grip and dig his nail’s into the flesh below it. 

“So,” Joe starts, moving the hand in incremental fractions closer to Daryl’s crotch. “Mama’s dead, Daddy might as well be, and big brother’s nowhere in sight.”

“Get off of me.” Daryl says, moving his own hand down to stop Joe’s own, trying to shift out of his grip but finding that he had nowhere to go. He’s pressed up against the edge of the counter, the cheap plywood plastered to one side and Joe steadily shifting towards the other.

Daryl tries to push Joe of him, his hand incidentally brushing against the other guy’s hard cock in an effort to get at the soft flesh of his stomach. Joe groans into his ear, starting to lick round the shell of it and bite at it when Daryl squirms, moving to pull the lobe between his teeth and suck on it until Daryl shivers, laughing at what he thinks is pleasure. 

“You’re so pretty, baby.” Joe says, panting it into his ear as his runs his hand over the crotch of Daryl’s jeans, using his free hand to tub at the bulge in his own. “Pretty little DD.”

Daryl glances behind Joe, towards the living room, hoping beyond hope that no one wakes up and sees what’s going on. While the things that Joe's doing feel horrible, Daryl knows that one of the others, or God forbid his Dad, walking in on this would be a death sentence for both Joe and himself, and as much as he’d like someone to kill Joe right now, Daryl always promised himself he wouldn’t die at his Dad’s hand.

The hand previously rubbing at his crotch moves up towards his neck, trailing feather light fingers over it in the mimicry of gentleness. Daryl gasps when the hand encircles his throat, adding pressure until breathing becomes difficult, letting go when Daryl starts to struggle and repeating it all over again once he can breathe clearly.

Joe moves the hand towards Daryl’s mouth, caressing his lips slightly before forcing the hand previously rubbing at his cock to his jaw, applying pressure until Daryl dutifully opens his mouth. Smirking, Joe shifts his fingers inside Daryl’s mouth, trailing them over the inside of his cheeks and over the length of his tongue. Eventually, he lets go of his jaw, just as he’s starting to thrust his fingers in and out of Daryl’s mouth. When his hand ventures back to his cock, Daryl bites down on the fingers in his mouth, hard enough that he feels the tell-tale metallic taste of blood falling onto his tongue.

Joe swears and pulls back, starts cradling his injured fingers in his other hand, letting go of Daryl long enough for him to shift towards the door and off of his stool. 

Daryl feels fingers graze his back as he moves into the other room, Joe reaching for him as soon as his unsteady reflexes realize that he’s moved. He tries his best to move around the haphazard mess of unconscious bodies littering the floor, finding it difficult to differentiate between the black of everyone’s jackets and the dirty black mess of the floor. 

He manages well enough, making it to his room just in time to shut the door in Joe’s face, falling against it with his weight to prevent the half-hearted efforts Joe's making to get in breaking the only latch the door has.

Daryl falls to the floor, lets out a deep breath and settles in for the night, the thumping against his back almost reminiscent of rocking.

It’ll stop eventually, he just has to wait for one of the ‘lions’ to wake up and beat Joe to a pulp.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - Childhood sexual abuse mentioned and briefly described!
> 
> I also apologize about how introspected this chapter is, and the lack of basically any dialogue. I'm really trying to develop Daryl in this, and what made him and continues to push the way he is and feels he has to be. There will be lots of sadness in this fic, and Daryl friendships and eventual relationship will be hard earned but he will have his happy ending! Please bear with me!
> 
> Also sorry for cliche Christmas, I needed a way for Daryl to go see Merle in a few chapters :)

Monday morning shines its light through Daryl’s window. The sun shining through the cloud cover and illuminating his cramped position in front of the door, the steady warmth of it easing into his sore muscles and soothing them as best it can. The light takes a while to reach his eyes, traveling up his body with the steady rise of it, and it is only when it hits them that Daryl wakes, remaining cramped and trying to put off stretching for as long as he can because he knows how much it’s gonna hurt. 

Daryl stands up, getting over the inevitable and trying to stretch all the cramped muscles out of his back, biting into his bottom lip to hold in a groan.

Grabbing some clothes from the ‘clean’ pile on his floor and walking back towards his bedroom door, Daryl opens it just enough to know that the reason it feels stiffer than usual is because that Joe guy’s passed out again it.

 _Good thing I skipped dinner._ Daryl thinks, eyeing the available gap, the slow burning feel of contempt rising to the forefront of his mind in reflection of the whole situation.

Pushing the door as far as he’s willing to push it without toppling the guy over and waking him up, Daryl slides his way through the crack and shuts it behind him, not being nearly as careful about it when he sees the state Joe’s in.

Someone beat him all to hell, just like Daryl said they would. The grey of his hair had turned a rustic orange with the blood that’s fallen into it and both his eyes are swelling to a deep purple color. That and his cheekbone looks bashed in.

Daryl would feel bad about it if he didn’t know the guy, maybe even if he hadn’t started fucking feeling him up last night, but right now he sort of wishes he’d stayed awake long enough to see who did it, if only so he can thank them when he sees them next week.

After seeing the steady rise and fall of Joe’s breath and leaning slightly closer to hear the whistle of it through his broken nose, Daryl decides the guy had a pretty good night all things considered and leaves him to sleep it off. He knows Dad’s other friends will probably shove him round a bit when he wakes up, seeing as he looked to be the target of their latest temper flare, but they’ve never actually killed someone before, and Dad’s much nicer to his friends then he’s ever been to his offspring.

Heading to the shower, Daryl’s safe enough in the knowledge that after dealing with the fallout of these parties for 12 years in a row, none of them are going to wake up at the noise of running water. Hell the state they're in, most of them wouldn’t wake up if he chucked water _over_ them.

He can’t say he’s ever worked up enough courage to try that one though.

Dad’s friends aren’t all bad. There are a few like Joe, that get a little overly friendly, but altogether Daryl would rather spend time with them then with his Dad, sometimes rather than Merle. Some of them know more about him then Merle and Dad will ever know, but they’re good at keeping secrets when they know Dad’s temper would crash over them as easily as it crashes into Daryl. 

Jimmy’s probably his favorite ‘cause he’s always been a good guy. Daryl can remember being 12 when Jimmy found him getting pushed up against the wall by some 16 year old who was trying to get his tongue down Daryl’s throat. He’d said that at first, he though the kid was just looking to beat up on him, but when he saw what the guy was doing he had to step in. Both of them knew it was better to be the most hated straight guy in the neighborhood then a faggot. 

He knew Daddy would’ve killed him and he’d been crying his damn eyes out over the whole thing, slouched over in the passenger seat with his head in his hands and tears making his vision blurry. 

_‘Why you whining like a little bitch, Darleena?’_ Jimmy had asked, adopting the nickname Merle had given him the last time he was home.

Daryl hadn’t liked it then and he didn’t like it now, knew it made him sound like someone’s bitch. But he’d been crying so much that his eyes were swollen, and no amount of biting his lip had kept the sobs back, so he hadn’t had any reason to argue with it.

He’d been begging, which had ended up being quite a common occurrence in Daryl’s life despite how much of a pussy it made him. Asking Jimmy to _‘please not tell my Daddy, he’ll kill me.’_

Jimmy had stopped the car, turned towards him while they were pulled over to the side of some forested back road and told Daryl that he wouldn’t say a thing if Daryl could do one little thing for him. That he had to keep it a secret because it was grown up stuff and grown ups don’t go round spreading no rumors and lies.

At that point Daryl hadn’t even known that he was gay, but the thought of someone _thinking_ he was honestly turned out to be scarier than the possibility of it.

So Daryl had been all for it, because Daddy had always been the scariest thing in his life and nothing ever quite compared to the fear he caused, not even something as unknown as someone else's dick.

In all fairness a blowjob for silence had been pretty fair game. Especially considering how shit Daryl had been back them, all slobber and too much teeth and gagging every time Jimmy made him take more.

Jimmy asks again every once in a while, preaches some bullshit about _‘renewing the contract’_ and all that. Daryl’s old enough to realise it’s a load of shit, knows enough about Dad and his friends to know that Jimmy would never tell a damn soul anyway ‘cause he’d be as dead a man as Daryl if anyone found out. But Daryl always feels like he owes it to him, a thank you for having enough sense to save his own ass and Daryl’s along with it. Jimmy kept his secret and he continues to keep it. All in all he’s a pretty good guy.

The discomfort of it all is well worth it, especially with how few of Dad’s other friends have Jimmy’s type of self-preservation left.

Getting to the bathroom at the opposite side of the house to the room the guys are sleeping in, Daryl gets undressed, gets in the shower and rinses under the cold ass water until his lips feel numb and the ends of his fingers start to look a little blue. They don’t have any of that fancy shampoo and conditioner shit, just a bar of soap that works for everything anyway. Daryl turns off the water to lather up, knowing that he’s spent long enough in here anyway and Dad goes ape-shit over the water bill no matter how low the numbers are.

Drying off, stepping into new clothes and doing everything else he needs to do before he leaves the house, Daryl finally manages to get to the edge of the living room. It’s a difficult task to wade through a couple of dozen unconscious bodies and a floor that’s more bottle then carpet without making a sound, but Daryl has had years of practice and he always surprises himself at how easy it is to make it seem like he isn’t even there.

The door creaks on his way through it, but no one shifts and even if they had, Daryl’s close enough to the forest that he’s halfway sure he could’ve gotten away before he got hit.

It takes him about half an hour to walk to school through the forest, and although it’s the quickest way to get there it means having to walk over the school field and in through the back door, meaning that if he’s late (which he normally is) whoever’s in the classes facing the field stare at him all the way across.

It just so happened that Mr. Grimes’ second period English class was in there.

Daryl puts his head down and keeps walking, not even glancing in at the window to see if Mr. Grimes is looking at him, if he’s realizing what a complete screw up Daryl actually is. First he begs a teacher to fuck him for a damn pass, because he’s too much of a pussy to take a beating like a man and then he can’t even get into school on time to make up his grades.

_Well he definitely can’t ‘help’ you, there ain’t nothing to help._

How stupid does he need to be to beg for his teacher’s dick, for a grade, because he was _scared_. He was scared that his Dad wouldn’t stop, scared that he wouldn’t get a chance to try again because he’s fucked up to many times before. The fact that it’s been a good 14 years, since the first time he can remember Dad hitting him and he’s still so shy of getting hit again is pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

Merle would cuss him out.

He’s distracted from himself as he walks through the door, the tinsel and banners lining the lockers reminding him that he can visit Merle again real soon. That Christmas is one of the only times Dad’s away from the house long enough for Daryl to take Merle’s bike up to the prison and see him.

Christmas isn’t really celebrated in the Dixon household, Will Dixon sees as little to celebrate in the birth of Jesus as he did in the birth of his own kids. 

It used to be one of the only times Mom would get out of bed, ‘cause she used to like Christmas, used to put on her red lipstick and her Sunday best and drag him and Merle to the church, make them sit through the whole service like everyone else there wouldn’t have preferred it if the left. It wasn’t like the Dixons really belonged in a church, but Mom never had been a proper Dixon and she was the type of women that clung to tradition like Daryl clung to his routine. 

Before she married Dad (and ruined her damn life), his Mom was a prostitute, proper streetwalker. Hated by the town she lived in and the family she was born into but loved by the people who picked her up and took her home, used her for a night and drove away with the memory preserved but never treasured. 

Mom always did long to feel treasured. And maybe that’s why she went to church, was pulled in by the eternal love, the benevolence of it all. The forgiveness of sins as long as they were confessed as many times as they were committed. Maybe that’s why she dragged him and Merle there so often. Maybe she wanted them to feel loved even if she didn’t do a very good job of it herself and married a man who didn’t seem capable of it. Maybe she wanted them to be forgiven.

A lot of the time Daryl wonders if he might have had more in common with his Mom then he realized. 

Despite her love of the holiday, Daryl’s pretty sure the only present he ever received was from Merle. He was 10 when he got the crossbow and he could barely lift it off the ground for the first three years until he had his growth spurt. It was probably the only thing Daryl owned that hadn’t belonged to someone else previously, hadn’t been passed down through the family and arrived at him tattered and dirty. Even then he can’t be sure that _no one_ had owned it before him, that Merle didn’t steal it off some unsuspecting asshole and make off with it before anyone noticed it was gone.

But at least no one in the family had owned it before, so it arrived to him in semi-good condition.

Daryl passes by a poster on the way down the hall, some cartoon picture of a live turkey taking up the bulk of the A4 sheet, the rest of it talking about the school Christmas meal that Daryl had never been to and never wanted to attend.

The only time they ever had turkey was if Daryl managed to sneak onto some rich bastards hunting grounds and take one down before anyone noticed, and they definitely didn’t have none of the fancy sides with it. 

Dad doesn’t like to pay for it, to ‘spend his hard earned money on all that crap’. But his dad doesn’t even like paying for water that doesn’t come out of the tap, even though the lot of them know the water supply to the trailer isn’t exactly safe for drinking, so he doesn’t really know what he ever expected.

“Ain’t no point paying for things I’m gonna piss out later.” Is what Will Dixon always says, although the ‘logic’ doesn’t stop him from buying a near endless supply of the beer he likes. 

He must’ve had a Christmas meal once in his life though, ‘cause it was part of Mom’s tradition once upon a time, but he’s pretty sure Dad must’ve beat it out of her, or maybe she beat it out of herself, because the half-hearted turkey’s dwindled long before the church trips did, and they both disappeared completely a long time before Mom.

The whole situation sort of sucks, or maybe it’s just the whole Christmas thing.

Who knows anymore, maybe it’s just life? 

Eventually, Daryl stops walking, can’t quite face strolling into the classroom late and having the teacher look at him like they can’t even be bothered to reprimand him anymore, like they can’t see the point in being disappointed when that’s all Daryl ever does. Sometimes things get to be a bit too much, and Daryl doesn’t have any shame in leaving the way he came, telling himself he’d go back for English, if only because he really needs to pass.

And because Mr Grimes still manages to look disappointed whenever he shows up late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of your support, you put a smile on my face everyday and I hope that (despite how hopeless and sad this seems at the moment) you enjoy the updates as much as I enjoy the comments and kudos!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly lighter feel to this chapter following the last one and leading up to the next one. 
> 
> While I'm not overly pleased with this chapter, I like the next one more (it has Merle in it after all). 
> 
> Thank you for all the support, you guys are truly the best! 
> 
> Quick reminder that my knowledge of the American school system is pretty lacking but I'm trying, please excuse anything stupid!

Daryl walks back into the school in time for English, settling himself into his seat by the window and taking down his hood because he knows Mr Grimes will ask him too if he doesn’t.

It’s easier to do it straight away, let people stare a little bit as they walk in, rather than have all their attention turn to him at once. It’s stifling, just slightly, to have that many eyes looking to him at any one time, especially when he knows the way they look at him, what they think of him.

It’s obvious to anyone that Daryl Dixon is going to be nothing more then what any other Dixon has ever been, and that’s a useless, abusive drunk with too much time and not enough ambition.

He doesn’t like it, sure as hell doesn’t want that to be the way he ends up, but Daryl knows he isn’t the brightest bulb in the box and who is he to argue with America’s best, all the studies that practiced and proved it, the psychiatrists that study the cycle and say it’ll always go on unless someone breaks it and that not many have the desire to.

Daryl doesn’t think it’s about desire, he thinks it’s more about caring enough to try. 

And Daryl knows far too well that trying doesn’t always work.

Mr Grimes walks in exactly on the bell and while he doesn’t look as tired as he had on Friday there’s a clinging feel of exhaustion around him, slight shadows under his eyes and stubble that looks a couple of days old.

Some of the girls at the front giggle, talking to each other in hushed whispers that they think no one else can hear. It’s all _‘I wonder if that’s how he wakes up every morning?’_ and _‘Well I wouldn’t mind being around to see it’_. Mr Grimes doesn’t notice, and Daryl sort of wishes he hadn’t either.

All in all it’s pretty disgusting.

Then again he’s no better, and that makes him pretty disgusting too.

It’s the lingering feeling of shame residing in his gut that gets him, and for all the times he’s sucked someone off or let them fuck him over any available surface to try and make his life a little easier then it always turns out to be, he never stooped quite so low as propositioning a _teacher_. To put that on a member of authority. It’s something out of porn, the student begging to be fucked, begging for extra credit. 

He’s never felt ashamed before, summed it up as necessity, as something that needed to be done to get by and let himself classify it as nothing to be ashamed of. Now he just feels kind of dirty, a little bit disgusted with himself.

It feels like there’s nothing left for him to give, like he’s gathered up every available bit of potential he ever had and used it to cheat his way through life, burnt out all he could ever be in the hope of remaining alive long enough to end up as whatever’s left to become.

It sucks, and he doesn’t know why he’s still trying to avoid the unavoidable and become something he no longer has the potential to be.

“Okay.” Mr Grimes says, sitting down on the edge of his desk and resting his hands on either side of his legs. “It’s three week’s till Christmas, all your tests for this semester are finished, and I can no longer give you revision chapters as homework.”

The class cheers, rowdy boys at the back high-fiving each other and fist pumping the air.

“Settle down.” And it says something about the respect Mr Grimes has from his students that they do as he asks first time.

“I never said I couldn’t give you _any_ homework.”

The class humbles faster than Daryl’s ever seen them, the happy smiles falling from people’s faces and Daryl might feel bad for them if they weren’t unhappy about something so small, so damn irrelevant. They look like their whole day has been ruined because they suddenly have to do something, that a teacher had the audacity to set them homework instead of leaving them free to have not a single care in the world for three weeks.

“But it is a group project.”

And that makes Daryl feel like a bit of a hypocrite, because damn if that isn’t a crushing feeling. No one likes Daryl, even when he stays out of their damn way, when he picks a corner of the classroom and stays there, sure as shit no one’s gonna like him if he’s actually responsible for part of their grade, if he has the responsibility of trying to pull his weight in a group when he can barely manage to drag himself through solitary work. Daryl just knows he’s gonna be that awkward kid that no one want’s to work with, the loner kid that no one even likes.

Normally he wouldn’t mind but he’s trying to show Mr Grimes that he really is fine, and not having any damn friends or any particular amount of people (that he needs more than one hand to count) that give a damn about him, really goes against proving that he’s perfectly capable of living life on his own.

And he is capable of living his life, so long as he _is_ on his own.

It’s not even lonely, it’s not forced individualism and it’s not being the cool kid who has no time for socialization.

It’s self-preservation.

“And yes I am assigning the groups.”

Mr Grimes’ looks pleased enough at the emotional roller coaster he’s just sent the kids on, and although his smile brightens his face and alleviates the tiredness that had shrouded the usual optimistic radiance, Daryl can’t decide whether it makes things better or worse.

Is it better to be alone or surrounded by people that make you feel like you are?

And in all fairness, Daryl’s life is turbulent enough without the addition of others.

He goes round the classroom, picking off people randomly and placing them with others, making up little groups of three and four.

“Glenn, Maggie and…” He trails off, looking around the room and Daryl knows before his eyes even reach him that he’s gonna be picked. He almost feels like pulling up his hood, turning to face the window and refusing to respond, but he isn’t a damn little kid and he knows life is full of things he’s gonna have to do, despite how much he doesn’t want to do them. 

Even so, he doesn’t know ‘Maggie’ and he doesn’t know ‘Glenn’ and he’s not sure if he would even want to get to know them under normal circumstances, let alone a group project he's probably gonna screw up.

“Daryl.” Mr Grimes said, a smile sent in his direction, and that’s probably the only thing that makes him get up and walk over to sit with the other two. None of his other teachers smile at him anymore, matter of fact, when he thinks about it, not many people it his life ever have. 

Daryl sits down with the other two, a pretty brunette girl holding hands with an Asian kid and waits until Mr Grimes finishes assigning the groups and stands back at the front of the class. 

“Now this is an English Language course, but it’s also Christmas time.” Mr Grimes says, planting his hands onto a hips in a way that is more casual then stern. “So I want you all to imagine that you get the opportunity to do something impossible, anything at all.” The class starts chatting again, quieting down once Mr Grimes raises a hand. “It could be growing wings, it could be seeing into the future, it could be talking to a loved one who’s no longer with us.”

“Where’s the Christmas bit though?” One kid says, rousing a chorus of agreeable murmurs from the rest of the class.

“You’ve got to audition for the opportunity.” Hands still on his hips, carrying on as if the interruption never happened. “So you have to write a letter to Santa,” A pause to allow for the expected cheers. “Explaining why you deserve to make the impossible possible.”

“I want one letter per group.” He says, sitting down behind his desk and folding his hands in front of him. “But I want everyone’s impute, and while you can start it in what remains of this lesson the rest must be done in your spare time.”

He leaves them to it, turning to the computer perpendicular to his desk and preparing what Daryl presumes must be work for his other lessons. Daryl sighs, turning back around to his group, sure that if he wasn’t sat with them they wouldn’t be nearly as silent as they currently are.

“I ain’t gonna snap at you for speaking, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He says, trying his best to break the ever present layer of ice that surrounds every conversation he’s partial to.

“It’s not that.” The girl, Maggie, says, shifting forward in her chair a little bit. “You just don’t really seem like you wanna be with us.”

“It ain’t you.” Daryl shakes his head slightly as he says it, not wanting the girl to think that he hates them already, that he just assumes he will and doesn’t even give them the chance.

“Well that’s good.” Glenn says, shifting closer to the table himself and ending up closer to Maggie in the process, not like either of them seem to mind. “Since we’re gonna be working together and all.”

Daryl nods, choosing to stay silent and let them speak about idea’s for the project, feeling a stupid sense of relief when they let him sit there like an idiot and do nothing but watch them talk, listening half-heartedly and trying to look like he’s contributing enough to avoid drawing Mr Grimes’ attention.

“I think we should do the deceased loved ones idea.” Maggie says, crossing both her arms over the table and laying her head on top of it, directing her question towards Glenn but looking at the both of them, including him without forcing him to be included. 

“He said that one to the class though, everyone’s gonna be doing it, we should think of something more original.” Glenn’s eyes focus on his as soon as he’s said it, and if Daryl was smart enough to have avoided eye contact, Glenn might have ignored him for the rest of the lesson.

“What do you think Daryl?” Glenn says instead, not nearly as subtle as Maggie in his inclusion.

Daryl shrugs his shoulders, tries not to feel too bad about the way Glenn’s open expression falls. The table falls silent and Daryl tries to think of something he could say, something that wasn’t stupid and might actually count towards a good idea. He bites at the skin around his lips, a nervous habit that’s much more suited to being in public then his preferred method of chewing on his thumbnail. His teeth rip of a piece that didn’t want to go, a droplet of blood beading at the corner of his mouth and Daryl licks at it before he speaks.

“What about something in the past, or the future, like time travel.” Daryl says, looking away as the both of them look to him. “Like that book, a Christmas Carol?”

“That’s actually a really good idea!” Glenn says, in a way that is perhaps a little too surprised, the happy expression re-establishing itself on his face.

Maggie elbows him in the ribs, no doubt over the shocked tone of Glenn’s voice. She looks at Daryl with a kind smile, raising her crossed arms to hold her chin up with her fists.

“We could do something like talking to our past selves, giving advice for the future, warning against things, stuff like that.”

Daryl nods, not only liking the idea but feeling a stupid amount of pride over the fact that he had an input in it, that Maggie could get a decent idea out of his half assed one.

“We’ll have to meet up sometime in the next couple of weeks to write it though.” Glenn says, looking towards the clock at the back of the room and noticing how fast the majority of the lesson had gone, how little time they have left.

“We can meet up at mine.” Maggie says, “Maybe next Wednesday or something. Dad won’t mind.”

Glenn thinks about it for a minute before shaking his head. “No, I can’t do Wednesday, is Friday okay?”

Daryl shifts slightly in his chair, feeling really uncomfortable about the whole situation and not liking the idea of trying to sneak away to someone’s house on a weekday, just in case Dad’s home and he knows what time Daryl should be back. 

Maggie’s looking at him when Daryl glances up and he almost snaps something at her before she places a hand out in front of him, not touching his own as it clenches to a fist on the desk, but focusing his attention on her none the less.

“It’s okay.” She says, “I get that people are busy leading up to the holidays, we can handle it, can’t we Glenn?” 

It’s an out, and he knows it is, knows that Maggie doesn’t believe he’s busy at all but can see that he doesn’t want to be a part of it. The confusion on Glenn’s face flashes into pain, that then flashes into understanding and if Maggie didn’t just kick the poor kid under the table, Daryl doesn’t want to know _what_ she did.

“Yeah, we got it, don’t worry about it!” Glenn says, smiling at Maggie when she smiles at him.

Daryl can’t help but be extremely grateful, for the very first time, that someone noticed how he was feeling and did something to help without doing anything to interfere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse this chapter, and the terrible Christmas activity, I just needed them to talk. Thank you :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Merle for you all, because I love Merle.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who continues to comment and kudos on this! Every single one of you is amazing :)
> 
> The 'We ain't ashes' quote is from Season 5 and it's one of my favorites so I put it in :)

Waking up with the sun was something Daryl had forcefully become very much used too. The lack of alarm clocks, phones, or other such electrical appliances in the house meant the revival of the previously outdated ‘The Sun’s Up So Am I’ method.

Merle and Daryl never really struggled with this like others would. They didn’t roll in their beds, rubbing their eyes while basking in or backing away from the early rays of morning light infiltrating their windows and trying to decide whether they felt more awake or more asleep with the lack of artificial time keepers. 

That was just the norm for them, their Daddy ain’t never had a reason to be up and about before noon and like hell he was wasting good drink money on something to rouse his ‘good for nothing’ kids and get their ‘illiterate’ asses to school.

Both Daryl and Merle, though never actually being in the school system at the same time, were both late on more days then not as a result. And if none of the teachers ever really understood that they didn’t oversleep because they were ‘up all night doing recreational activities’ ( _‘Lady, hunting for dinner ain’t no ‘recreational activity’ I need that shit to live_.) but because they had no way of getting up other than the fucking bright ass ball of light in the fucking sky, then neither of them minded much. They were pretty used to being disappointing (and disappoint _ed_ ).

Most commonly at and by each other, oddly enough. 

Their whole relationship is dysfunctional, more used to throwing punches then balls, to hands covered in blood rather than paint. Merle’s hurt Daryl more times than he cares to count, and Daryl has no problem getting his own licks in when he has the chance. They never necessarily want to hurt each other, they just don’t really care when they do, Merle likes to think he’s preparing Daryl for the world and Daryl likes to take his anger at that out on the person who causes it.

It wasn’t like it was a close bond, but it was still brotherly and they understood each other in a way few people were able to understand. 

The only thing Daryl had ever liked about the holidays is his Dad’s near constant absence. He goes out on the Saturday, finds himself a nice piece of tail to hook up with for the next few weeks and stays with them until they realize what a piece of shit he is.

Dad being gone means Daryl can take Merle’s bike up to the prison without Dad ever being the wiser and after the first time of trying it when he knew Dad was home and coming home to a long session with the belt that left a fair deal of the scars he has now, it really is safer to wait.

Daryl doesn’t wear a helmet, Merle hasn’t got one and Daryl probably wouldn’t anyway, but he puts a leather jacket over his shoulders to combat the wind chill, slips his vest on and leaves the shitty ass trailer behind for a couple of hours.

The trip to the prison is a load of back roads, tarmac lined with fir trees on either side. The angle of the sun casts their shadows onto the road at all times but midday, where the sun shone directly down to the road and warmed anyone driving by. It was always a nice trip when blessed with the heat cast by the midday sun, and although Daryl would’ve liked to have waited a few more hours and made the trip enjoyable, visiting hours where strict and if Daryl wasn’t there by ten there was no way he was getting in unless he got arrested himself.

He’d even considered that a few times, when things got really bad at home and Daryl missed Merle (jackass that he was) the most. But Merle had always said he’d end up as some guys bitch if he ever went to prison, and Daryl figures that if that’s all he’s ended up being out here Merle was probably right.

God, the things Merle would do to him if he knew what he’d done, the amount of people he’d let bend him over and fuck him or use his mouth until he’s chocking on his own spit.

_He’d still take the cigarettes you’ve got him._

Probably because he’s always been happier to see a pack of smokes then he’s ever been to see Daryl, even before he got put in prison.

Daryl parks the bike in the lot, putting it near one of the walls so some asshole doesn’t decide to drive into it. 

Walking into the front entrance, Daryl stands still and lets the guards pat him down, let’s them check the cigarettes for anything else Daryl could be trying to smuggle to his ‘junkie’ brother. They don’t need to ask him who he’s here to see, ‘cause for all the times he never manages to visit, Merle’s been in here for a long time a lot of times. 

Daryl’s half surprised he can even look forward to getting out, considering he’ll be straight back in here before the year is done.

They lead him and all the others through to the visiting room and the familiar sight of grey tables meets Daryl like an embrace, cause he sure as shit isn’t gonna get one of Merle. He sits down at one in the corner, knowing how much Merle hates being in the center of the room in these places.

 _‘Always gotta watch your back baby brother, these pricks’ll jump ya if you give ‘em half the chance.’_ He’d said, when they’d been working their way through the third cycle of Merle’s imprisonment. Daryl must’ve been about 15 and it’d been a risk driving Merle’s bike up here, but no one had asked questions and most of them probably knew that underage driving was very tame as far as Dixon criminal records where concerned.

“Baby Bro!” Merle calls, one of the last ones through the door when it eventually opens, the other guys flock to their families, hugging them and kissing cheeks and smiling ear to ear. Merle doesn’t flock, Merle saunters, makes his way over to where Daryl’s sat leisurely with a half surly smirk plastered onto his face.

Daryl doesn’t stand to greet him, had learnt by now that there’s no point. 

He hands the cigarettes over as soon as Merle sits down, and Merle’s face brightens as much as it will throughout this entire encounter.

“Ah lil’brother.” Merle says “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I have my ways.” He just doesn’t think Merle would approve of them if he told him.

Merle smirks, pulls out a cigarette and motions for Daryl’s lighter. Daryl rummages about in the pockets of his jacket, pulls one out and hands it to him.

“Dixon.” One of the guards says, just as Merle pulls the lighter to his mouth. Merle glances at them, keeps his finger on the trigger of the flame. “Not in here, you know that.”

Huffing, Merle tosses the lighter back to Daryl, watching his baby brother shove it back into his pocket as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, choosing to mess about with it instead of putting it back in the pack.

“You alright?” Merle asks, taking in the light purple bruises still clinging to the corners of Daryl’s eyes, the green stain left behind on his jaw. He doesn’t say anything, and Daryl can’t quite tell if he will. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way, they both know it doesn’t make a lick of difference.

“Fine.” Daryl says. “They treating you alright.” He nods his head towards the guards at the back of the room, smirking slightly when Merle does.

“As well as they ever do.” The lapse into silence after, nothing left to do except listen to the conversations around them until visiting hours are up. It’s takes a couple of minutes, but it seems like Merle suddenly develops a caring side, with the way he leans forward all slowly and meets Daryl’s eyes the way he normally does before they start laying into each other.

The look lacks the arrogance though, the background anger that festers until it flares and while he doesn’t look kind, he could pass for concerned.

“He do that to you.” He says, quieter than the rest of their conversation has been, tipping his head towards the fading bruises clinging to Daryl’s skin.

“Nah.” Daryl says, shakes his head. “Was a fight, you should see the other guy.”

It’s obvious to the both of them that it’s a lie, obvious that neither of them believes it and Daryl knows it’s probably the same thing Merle used to say every time he had to. 

But Merle didn’t ask to get the truth, he knows the truth, as much as he hates to admit he does. It’s more of a check-up, to see if they can still lie, to see if the humiliation of it all still outweighs the fear, the pain. 

If Daryl can lie to him, he’s okay. 

Merle doesn’t know what he’d do if Daryl looks him in the eyes one day and tells him the truth, puts words to what they both know, but he tries to tell himself that it’ll never happen, ‘cause if he got through it Daryl sure as hell can too. He doesn’t know whether it’s gotten worse, hasn’t been home long enough to tell, knowing he couldn’t stay around too long in case he ran into the old man and couldn’t resist beating him to a pulp.

And even though Daryl’s sat across from him looking too thin for his own good with bruises shadowing his eyes and making him look so goddamn tired, Merle decides it’s alright if it has, ‘cause Daryl can still tell him it hasn’t.

“How’s school.” He says, leaning his arms onto the table in front of him, watching Daryl mirror his position.

“I’m failing English.” If Merle thought about it hard enough he could reason away a lot of Daryl’s appearance with that, but Daryl was in a fight and nothing even happened so why the hell would he?

“You sad about that?”

“I don’t know.” Daryl shrugs his shoulder, emphasising the broad cut of them. Merle’s almost sure he can see a few eyes cut across the tables towards Daryl and belatedly hopes Daryl never ends up in here. 

_Boy always has been too damn pretty for his own good._

“Well you don’t gotta be.” Merle answers, as comfortingly as Merle ever gets. “You can speak, can’t ya? That’s enough for most of the assholes round here.”

“Just about.” Daryl says, his lips quirking up a little bit at the edges, but the look in his eyes staying carefully neutral.

“Baby brother, you know us Dixons ain’t destined for nothing special.” It’s not said to crush him, that’s already been done multiple times over, it’s more a reminder, to keep his head held high but his hopes as low as they’ll go.

“I know.” Daryl says, and Merle can practically see more words lining up to spill from his lips before Daryl closes them.

“What is it?” 

“I just… tried.” Daryl’s eyes flicker from where they had rested on the far wall down to the table, the bruises showing up more prominently as more skin is shown. “I tried and it didn’t work.”

Merle can’t help thinking that something’s slipped a little in his brother, that while he isn’t down enough to stop pretending he isn’t sad, he’s one step closer to forgetting how to care enough to keep up the act. Merle knows those days, knows they come and go like the changing of the seasons but feel like eternal winters.

“Ain’t no need for trying.” Daryl looks up at him, his eyes flickering to his own and flickering away again quick as a hummingbirds wings. “And there ain’t no reason to quit.”

Merle leans towards him, trying to catch Daryl’s attention even if he can’t catch his eyes. “All’s you gotta do is live.”

Daryl sits for a minute, contemplating while it’s peaceful enough to do so, and even though Merle’s a jumped up junkie with a sadistic streak a mile wide, sometime he can speak a lot of sense. Daryl would never say it out load, but he also knows Merle only gets that way when he’s talking to someone he cares about.

“You going all shrink on me, bro?” Daryl asks, smirking up at Merle from his slouched position in the hard backed prison chair. It reawakens the old aches from too many nights sleeping against his door, but he can’t bring himself to shift and relieve them.

“You gonna go all Uncle Bill on me?”

Uncle Bill’s dead, shot himself in the head with a shotgun a couple of months back, after he cut half the barrel off.

Dad said it was a waste of a damn good gun.

“Nah. I ain’t Mom. And we ain’t ashes.” Daryl says, and maybe it speaks volumes about the both of them that they aren’t surprised by things like that anymore, suicide’s pretty commonplace in Dixon history.

“Damn right we aren’t Baby Brother.”

The guards usher them out soon after, Merle turning around without so much as saying goodbye. Daryl doesn’t mind, knows that Merle hates the feeling of finality ‘goodbye’ gives a situation as much as Daryl himself does.

Walking back to the bike, Daryl feels along his jacket pockets for his lighter, shifting through the other ones for his half empty pack of cigarettes. He stops once he reaches the bike, leaning back against it and opening the packet of smokes.

Daryl takes out one of them, cups a hand to the flame of his lighter and lets it catch. He inhales deeply, holds it for a second and then exhales, watching the glowing embers of flame as they burn the paper.

He shakes of the ashes, watching them fall to the ground until they disperse and he can see them no more. 

Taking another drag, Daryl snubs the cigarette out on the waist high wall by which he parked Merle’s bike, extinguishing the flame and scattering the ashes along with it. He isn’t fool enough to say it’s a pretty way to go, this whole ‘burning’ thing. Then again, the state Bill was in hadn’t been all that nice looking either. But there was something final about Mom’s way, something memorable about leaving nothing to remember.

If anything, he thinks Mom’s way of doing things was a little more poetic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note to say that I've currently written about 16 chapters of this (trying to keep on top of it by writing two a day), so so far it's about 42,000 words. After puzzling around a bit, I've got this set at about 38 chapters, and I was just wondering if you all thought that was a bit too much? It's my first Multi-chap fic, so I'm trying to solve everything as I go!
> 
> I'd also like to say that next chapter is 700 words longer then normal to make up for this one being a bit blah. And that the events of this chapter are based off my own experiences with divorce, which was settled rationally and without much argument. I didn't want any issues caused by this to add to much to the list of things I'm trying to solve! 
> 
> But thank you for bearing with me, and for all of your lovely support!

The holidays, in Rick’s humble opinion are a very much overrated and an almost comically stressful time.

But Carl loves it and Lori loves it and he supposes that’s all he can really hope for. 

It’s currently the week before Christmas, and the house finally fits in with the season now that it’s been decorated. The tree stands tall and proud in the living room window, perfectly symmetrical save the small, uneven gaps where Carl has taken candy canes off to eat. From the look of them, he’d definitely been taking more than one a day, which remained the allocated amount, but it’s the holidays and Rick decides that Carl can only have one childhood and candy canes could be considered a crucial part of it.

Carl’s staying over at one of his friend’s houses, and although Lori had been tentative about letting him visit so close to Christmas, the both of them become ridiculously lenient with discipline once the festive season starts up. 

Lori herself is in the kitchen making brownies, a particular Christmas tradition she stuck by even with how difficult it was for her to bake. She didn’t particularly enjoy it, and despite Rick telling her that she really didn’t have to, she was always adamant about it.

Rick walks into the kitchen himself, leaning up against the counter beside the work surface Lori has commandeered. He looks around the kitchen, his eyes briefly lingering on the table, remembering the fight that had happened when Shane was round, which remained to be the last time they's seen each other.

“What happened with Shane, the other day,” He starts, Lori’s head tilting up slightly in acknowledgement and although she doesn’t look at him, Rick knows that means she’s listening. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Lori moves towards the cupboards, opening one and pulling out the brownie tray her Rick belatedly remembers her mother giving her when they moved here. “You were stressed.”

“I didn’t feel stressed.” And he hadn’t, not at all. He’d felt almost maddeningly calm considering all that had happened.

“You didn’t look it either, but you were.” She says, stopping by the fridge on her was back to the counter and pulling out the butter. “You are.”

Rick watches her place everything down, greasing the tin with the butter and grabbing the bowl of mixture. For all that everyone says about the varying success of Lori’s brownies this looks like a pretty good batch.

“We haven’t fought like that in such a long time.” Rick says, trying to think back to the last time they had and finding himself unable to remember.

“It’s the distance, neither of you did anything wrong.”

“Neither of us-” Rick starts, her statement making him look towards her in shock, watching her smooth the brownie mix down into the tin. “Did you hear a word he said?”

“About a boy who offered you sex?” Lori asks, stopping what she’s doing and looking up at him for the first time since the whole conversation started. “He sounds like trouble anyway Rick, you should leave it alone.”

“He’s seventeen years old!” Rick’s usual urge to protect his students flares, and he’s honestly surprised Lori can continue to be so cold to someone so young, someone she hasn’t even met. “He’s been-”

“Why is defending him so important to you?” She cuts in, picking up the tray and moving away from him towards the oven.

“Why is defending Shane so important to you?” Rick follows behind her, knowing she won’t speak until she’s got them in and set onto the right temperature.

Lori stands up, shuts the oven door and blows a lock of her bangs out of her eyes. “Because I know Shane.”

“You know me too!” 

“And I’d defend you just as much, if you were right!” 

“You think he was right?” Rick says, not believing they’ve come round to this again and she still can’t see how wrong Shane was. “The way he was acting? It sounded like he didn’t even care about abusing his position!”

“Shane wouldn’t do that, he’s a good man.” Lori says, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back onto the counter beside the oven.

She sounds so positive about it, like there isn’t a doubt in her mind, and although Rick should think nothing of it he can’t help thinking there’s something more in the decided tone, the disproving curl of her lips. And when the hell did Lori start thinking she knows Shane better than Rick does anyway?

“Why do you keep talking like that?” He asks, watching Lori roll her eyes.

“Like what.” Lori throws both her hands up slightly as she speaks, let’s them fall back down to the counter behind her and rest there.

“Like you know something about him that I don’t.” 

Lori goes to respond, but shuts her mouth before she does, looking towards the timer on the oven as she contemplates for a minute.

“You were away a lot, while you were getting your degree.” She says eventually, brushing one of her hands through her hair and shrugging her shoulder noncommittally. “Shane and I got close.”

“Close?” Rick asks, not having much faith in what she’s saying at that particular terminology.

“We’re good friends.” Lori says, like Rick doesn’t count as part of the equation, like Rick hasn’t been best friends with Shane since they were still in diapers and couldn’t string together half a sentence if they tried. Hell, both of their Mom’s had been best friends for twenty years, their friendship had been set in stone the moment they were born.

“I’ve known Shane my whole life.” 

“But how well have you known him recently?” Lori argues, walking around his to clean up the mess she’s left on the counter, and although it seems like a normal thing to do, Rick can’t help seeing it as an aversion tactic.

“Hang on a second, you just said while I was getting my degree.” He got his degree 10 years ago, that wasn’t exactly recent. “That was years ago Lori, what do you know about ‘recently’.”

Lori stops, turning around from where she’s wiping down the counter. She looks calm, like nothing untoward is going on, but 15 years of being married to her has given Rick more insight than anyone else could have, and the brief sweep of her tongue over her bottom lip and the gentle, rhythmic tapping of her foot are all tell-tale signs toward an underlying feeling of anxiety. Her tells are small, have always been hard to see, but Rick’s known her long enough for them to automatically amplify to the point where they become obvious.

“Is there something going on here that you haven’t told me.” He asks, giving her the opportunity, giving her the choice to say whatever it is to him before he has a chance to puzzle it out. He knows there must be something, Lori isn’t the type to get anxious over nothing.

“Well what about you?” She says, flicking out her wrist at him.

“What about me.”

“You and this ‘Daryl’ kid.” She’s turning the tables, it’s obvious, trying to turn this round so all the pressures on him, finding something to pin on him so he’ll let the issue go. “He’s all you ever talk about recently.”

“Are you implying I-“ _slept with Daryl_. Is she really implying that he slept with his student?

“All I know, is you come in here, tell us about this kid that ‘propositioned’ you and then damn near start a fight in my living room when Shane told you what he was like, said what you didn’t want to hear!” Rick knows there must be something now, because she only gets like this when she has something to hide, when she doesn’t want him to know something and tries to throw him of the trail by throwing all his own problems at him.

“You’re telling me you think something’s going on between me and one of my students because I won’t stop talking about him?” He asks, holding her eye contact when she makes it.

“Yes!” She’s so adamant, so determined to fix this all on him.

“Then why do you keep talking about Shane?” It’s check mate, the last move of the game and Rick knows that Lori knows that he’s got her pinned down and defenseless.

Lori doesn’t answer, and the look on her face, the stumped, run out of idea’s look tells Rick all he needs to know.

“Holy shit.” He breathes. “You’ve been sleeping with Shane?”

“No I haven-” She goes to deny, shaking her head.

“Don’t, Lori.” Rick starts, cutting her of in the middle of her sentence, suddenly much more serious then irritated. “Tell me the truth.”

Lori drops the cloth she was using behind her, rests he weight down on the sink and bites at the bottom edge of her lip. “It was a couple of times.”

Rick lets out a breath, in what doesn’t quite make it into a sigh, the shape of his mouth too round to manage anything other than a gust of air. He inhales, does it again, raises both his hands to his forehead and drags them down the length of his face, like he’s trying to rub the damn shock from it and compose himself.

“While we’ve been married? Recently?” He asks, the first thing that comes into his head.

“Yeah.” She breathes out, looking like she can’t decide whether it’s best to stay where she is or step towards him.

“I can’t believe this.” And he really can’t, can’t quite believe that he didn’t realize, didn’t see something, didn’t know. God he’d been so caught up in school and students and the bruises that never quite leave Daryl’s skin that he didn’t notice his wife and his best friend were-

“Well it sounds like you’ve been screwing that kid anyway!” That snaps him out of it, draws his attention back to Lori, and God, the fact that she thinks that, could say that about him makes him angrier at her then her sleeping with Shane ever could.

“No! I haven’t, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you, I wouldn’t do that to _him_!” Rick yells, one of the few times he’s ever raised his voice to Lori, enough to shock her into silence. “Jesus Christ. Sleeping with my best friend, that’s one thing, but accusing me of taking advantage of a student!”

“I’m sorry, that was-” She starts.

“Cruel?” Rick finishes. “Bad of me? That what you’re gonna say? Everything about this is bad Lori!”

She ducks her head, and Rick has to look away for a minute, take a deep breath and calm down and try not to notice the similarities between her body language and Daryl’s right now. That constant shame, guilt, sadness trio that follows him around like a black cloud perpetually threatening rain.

“What are we gonna do?” She asks, after a few minutes have passed with nothing but silence between them.

“We can’t carry on like this.” Rick says. “We both know things haven’t been working, we just put it off, neither of us wanted to admit it.”

“So divorce then, is that it?” She sounds so sad, and Rick really has had enough of making people sound so upset. “We’re gonna fight over the house, fight over custody of Carl, fight about Shane.”

“I don’t want to fight.” Rick runs a hand over his eyes, placing his other hand onto his hip.

Lori looks at him through the parted section of her bangs and Rick thinks he’s in the classroom for a minute because the same sense of failure is resting heavy on his shoulders. “No one ever does Rick, it just ends up that way.”

“Why, why does this have to be difficult?” He asks, making eye contact with her and yearning for some type of agreement, if only so this doesn’t go the way it did last time he held a precarious situation in his hands and so struggled not to break it.

“Because I cheated on you, I screwed up!”

“And? I don’t hate you. I’m not advocating for divorce because I never want to see you again.” Lori looks near tears, and Rick’s starting to think he’ll never be able to stop things from playing out this way. “But we’re both unhappy.”

“Divorce will make us happy?” Lori asks, sarcastic and skeptical rolled into one, both disbelieving and unbelieving, not yet ruling out the only line they have left to cross.

“It gives us the space, the freedom. There’s no reason why we can’t sort this like adults, nothing about this has to be difficult.” Rick pleads, Carol’s words echoing themselves around his head and although this isn’t the situation he’d needed her advice for he’s glad he a grasp on how to pull this back.

_It’s not about what he wants, it’s about what he needs_. It’s not about what you want, it’s about what you need.

“What about Shane?” Lori asks, finally calming down enough to raise her head, look Rick in the eyes. 

“What about Shane?” Rick asks, the question registering as irrelevant in his current chain of thought.

“You’re not angry at him.”

Rick looks up at her and sees a lot of thing she probably doesn’t realize she’s showing. There’s care there, worry, sadness, hurt. 

Love.

And it isn’t just for him.

“Does me being angry at him undo all of this?” He asks, motioning between the two of them with no malice in the movement.

“No.” It sounds final, sounds like a decision’s been made, and Lori seems to realize it herself because she raises a hand to her lips, almost looking like she wants to pull the word back.

“Then what’s the point of making this about anger.” Rick says. “Why not just make it about moving on, moving forward.”

Lori nods, her hands wringing together in front of her. “How do we do this, how do we tell Carl?”

Rick moves towards her, places his hands on the top half of her arms and clenches gently, encouragingly. “I’ll move out, rent a flat for now, you can take the house, we can sort out official custody later but right now, no matter whether you decide to be with Shane or not, I just want to know that you won’t try to stop me seeing my son.”

There are tears shining in Lori’s eyes, and although her sadness at the whole situation is evident she looks lighter then she has in years, and that’s proof enough to Rick that he’s doing the right thing.

“Of course I wouldn’t.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter for you because you all deserve it :)
> 
> A quick note to say that Daryl does get into a bit of a panic at the end of this, not necessarily an attack, but he get's panicked none the less. That isn't however, the reason he passes out, that's the result of him regularly (but unintentionally) forgetting about taking care of himself e.g eating meals and drinking.
> 
> Thank you again, and again, and again for all the support! :D

Christmas is just around the corner and although the main streets of town have been plastered with decorations and the neighboring houses on Daryl’s street are wasting their money on lights that give Daryl a headache every time he tries to sleep, the forest remains blissfully untouched.

There’s no room for festivities here, no space for anything so fundamentally manufactured, nothing but the blissful sound of nature. It’s the quiet that’s never quite silent, the sounds that blend into your head, the barely there noises disguising themselves as silence and leaving you deaf to them.

Daryl doesn’t add to the noise, remains just a deceptively silent as the birds and the breeze as he moves across the forest floor, his crossbow raised in front of him. 

It’s in these moments that he’s especially glad Merle bought (stole) this crossbow for him, assuring Daryl the benefit of it at an age where he couldn’t even understand it’s use. The freedom it gives him, to walk through the forest for something other than the prospect of wasting wasted time, to have a reason to do it that amplifies the enjoyment of it.

That and the fact that he probably would’ve starved a long time ago without it.

He’s already got four squirrels and a rabbit, and even though that’s plenty enough for now, the barren nothingness of the house hurts in all the ways the nothingness of the forest never will and the effort of going back outweighs the effort of carrying on. The position of the sun tells him it’s early and reassures Daryl that his reasoning is justifiable rather then cowardly.

It’s about an hour later, when Daryl’s managed to bag another three rabbits and the ache of exhaustion is just starting to creep into his bones, that he straps his crossbow to his back and heads home. The approach to his house requires just as much caution as hunting ever did, a careful eye required to look out for not only the stocky silhouette of his Dad against the trailer windows, but the widespread and dangerously random positioning of his snares.

Daryl had been caught in one once before, the fault of which was not his own. It left its scars, left its warnings, reminded him of behavior and discipline and shutting his damn mouth. 

The phone’s ringing when he gets in, and while it would be a surprise to most that the Dixons have a phone when they haven’t even got an alarm clock, Dad’s always been a big believer in doing things the easy way, and Daryl supposed phoning for takeaway was easier than driving down the road to pick it up.

All in all, the phone’s pretty much hit and miss. The chance of anyone actually phoning usually means Dad hasn’t paid a bill and they’re about to be shut off, or one of his friends has done something stupid and called for reinforcements. The chance of it ringing is just a slim, dependent on whether Dad’s paid the company and hasn’t ripped the wires out trying to get it to stretch to his chair.

Daryl ignores it for a while, listening to the shrill, repetitive beep of it and trying to work out if picking it up and dealing with whoever’s pissed enough to phone them is a good idea.

It rings off, and Daryl lets out a breath of air as he drops his crossbow beside the door, knowing he’d have to pick it up later in case Dad comes home and uses it for his gambling.

Daryl’s made it to the kitchen by the time the phone starts ringing again, and it’s probably only the fact that the juice Joe had poured for him a week ago remains on the table and that the thought of touching the glass and tipping it away and being anywhere near that general area of the kitchen makes him a little uneasy, that he heads through into the living room and answers it before he has more time to convince himself that it’s a bad idea.

“Hello?” He says, expecting the fine toned syllables of some upper-class bastard reminding him about all of the bills they haven’t got the money to pay for, of the rowdy drawl of Dad’s friend accompanied by the echoed sounds of fighting in the background.

“Daryl?” They ask, noticeably soft, obviously feminine, and Daryl can’t understand why the hell a girl would be phoning the Dixons unless Dad got one of them pregnant.

He heart falls slightly at the thought, bringing another child into this doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Yeah?” He asks, switching the receiver to his other ear to try and make more out of the shitty quality the phone performs at.

“It’s Maggie!” The girl, Maggie, says and Daryl wonders how the hell she got his number, before he remembers her asking about it just in case they needed him for that English Christmas project. (They hadn’t, and that’s probably why the marks they’d got were so good, probably why the proud smile Mr Grimes had shot at them left an unsettled feeling in Daryl’s gut). “I’ve been trying to phone you for ages, though you might’ve been out.”

“Sorry” Daryl mutters, wiping a hand over the sweat on his forehead and feeling like a bit of a dick for not picking up the phone the first time he heard it. “Was out hunting.”

“It’s okay!” Maggie says, and Daryl thinks she must be well versed in spotting apologies from people who don’t like saying sorry. “I just wanted to get a hold of you, was wondering if you were free on Saturday.”

_Yes_ , Daryl thinks, but doesn’t say it. He’s always free on Saturdays, hell a lot of the time he’s free every day of the week, but on Saturdays Dad isn’t there to get pissed that Daryl wasn’t at home, being as miserable as he himself always is. Despite it all, Daryl doesn’t know whether he has enough energy to go out, to do anything but stroll round the forest and kill squirrels.

“It’s okay if you’re not!” Maggie rushes to say, always so reassuring, no doubt sensing that his silence means more than contemplation. “It’s just that my family gets together every year, and once it gets past seven and everyone goes home I’m allowed to have some friends over.”

“What, like a party?” 

“Sort of, more like a get together though, not too many people!” She says, obviously taking the fact that he didn’t outright say no as some sort of sign. “We talk, relax, have some drinks. Only beer and stuff though, Daddy doesn’t have spirits in the house.”

“I don’t really know anyone.” Daryl says, rubbing a hand against the back of his head, where the strands are shortest.

“You know me, you know Glenn!” Maggie sounds progressively more excited, and Daryl really isn’t sure of anything except that he doesn’t want to crush that. “We’ll introduce you!”

“I’m not good at –” _speaking, making friends, crowds, anything._

“You don’t have to be.” Daryl runs at his eyes, starts to realize that she sure is persistent when she wants to be. “You might even surprise yourself.”

Daryl sighs, not really sure if there’s anything he could rightfully do anymore that would surprise him, not if it concerned himself. He bites his lip, listening to the silence of the receiver and wondering if he’s going to regret filling it.

“When is it?” He asks finally, feeling like he’s just tied a noose round his own damn neck and handed his life over to some girl he’s spoken to once.

“Saturday, this Saturday, the 21st.” Maggie says, her smile practically transmitting itself through the phone along with her words. 

“Okay.” Daryl says, about to trail off into awkward silence until she decides to put down the phone before he remember that he has no idea where this party even is, and even if he’s still uncertain about going, knowing where to go if he decides to seems pretty important. “Wait, where do you live?”

“Does that mean you’re going to come?”

“Means I’ll know where to be if I do.” Daryl says, her obvious enthusiasm causing the frown that had been dominating his lips the whole day to lift up slightly at the corners. The lingering feeling of doubt that had been surrounding him subsides, descending into what could be tranquility if Daryl wasn’t so perpetually stressed.

Maggie had described a farm house a few turnings off the highway, and that’s where Daryl found himself standing on Saturday, Merle’s bike parked against the gathering of trees a ways away from the house itself.

He clung to the treeline himself for a little while, the small fraction of courage that had got him here all but running empty. He could hear the sound of laughter from inside and even though he didn’t begrudge others having fun, he also didn’t want to walk in there and prevent them from it. Daryl isn’t stupid enough to think there’s enough humor left in him to laugh like that, enough carelessness to risk making a noise that loud unless it was forced out of him in a much less savory form.

“What are you doing?” Someone asked from behind him, and though Daryl doesn’t startle he flinches slightly, annoyed at himself for his own momentary loss of awareness. 

“Leaving, probably.” He says, feeling better once he can see the girl behind him, all deadlocked hair and dark skin and bright white teeth.

“Did Maggie invite you?” The girls asks, stepping forward to be closer to his side.

“Yeah."

“Then she wouldn’t want you to leave.” She brushes a few dreadlocks out of her face and Daryl has the brief though that they must be really heavy to fall out of the headband she has wrapped around them. “I’m Michonne by the way.”

“Daryl.” He says, looking back to the house and trying to judge how many people are inside it by the blacked out sections of the windows. “Why are you here?”

“I was invited too.”

“No I meant out here.”

Michonne looks at him for a few moments, looking towards the house alongside him before answering. “Leaving, probably.”

Daryl glances back at her, but ultimately his gaze re-fixes itself onto the house. There’s a lot of things he could ask her, but digging too deep in people’s business is like watching damn landslides and he doesn’t want to risk exposing any of his own business by uncovering hers. 

“She wouldn’t want you to leave.” He echoes, and although he doesn’t know it for sure it sounds enough like Maggie to make sense.

Michonne’s smile is like a Cheshire cat’s grin and she reaches over to nudge his elbow with her own. “I’ll go if you go.” 

Daryl looks back up to the house, the unease still present but noticeably tamed by Michonne’s easy conversation. He doesn’t quite know how to reply, or how he’s going to manage in a room full of people, surrounded by conversations he doesn’t know how to participate in, when he can’t even finish this one.

In the end, he doesn’t need to say anything, Michonne just starts walking. And Daryl, left standing among the trees and finding more loneliness in suddenly being alone then he ever imagined he would, follows. 

It’s Maggie who opens the door to them, and the smile that lights up her face let’s Daryl know he’s made the right decision. If the similar expression that settles on Michonne’s face is any indication, he thinks she probably has too. Maggie’s the most excited Daryl’s ever seen her, not that he has a lot to compare it to, but seeing as she isn’t exactly a downcast person at the best of times, the whole thing gives a good deal of perspective to the kind of person Maggie is.

She ushers them into the house, grabbing a drink for each of them along the way and leading them into the living room. 

The whole thing isn’t actually as bad as Daryl thought it would be, whatever alcohol Maggie gave him tastes better than any of the crap Dad buys and there’s no more than 15 people scattered around the room.

“Go ahead and introduce yourself to everyone!” Maggie tells them, grabbing onto Glenn’s elbow as the kid goes to move past her. “We’re probably gonna talk for a bit before doing anything else, so make the most of it!”

Daryl shares a look with Michonne as Maggie drags Glenn away. He doesn’t think she looks as daunted as he must, but can’t help thinking he might be underestimating her acting abilities, either that or his own are worst then he thought.

The two of them stay where they are, situated near a particularly shrouded corner of the room. Michonne leaves eventually, drifting into the middle of a conversation with more ease then Daryl can ever imagine having. Half the time the only thing Daryl’s good at easing into are bad situations, and even though this thing isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, there’s still a part of him that considers leaving, wonders if it would’ve been better if he’d never come to start with.

It’s not like he’s stupid enough to think Michonne’s ‘abandoned’ him. He’s more envious of her ability to fit in, even after her hesitance to do so. It’s the fact that for a minute, outside, he thought he’d found someone who understood. More than looking at books and bruises and puzzling the whole situation together, but someone who had experience, someone who knew what this was like. Someone who could understand what it’s like to have nothing wrong with you, but so much wrong done _to_ you. 

It re-establishes the feeling of unease he’d had outside, because even though he knew he had nothing in common with the people here, it feels like he’s lost a bridge, a stepping stone, a way to temporarily fit in even though he doesn’t belong.

He’s drawn from his solitude when a thin, young looking blonde girl comes up to him, leaning into his space as he pushes himself further into the corner.

“Don’t you want to come play?” She says, motioning to the center of the room, where the others have crowded round to play some drinking game.

Daryl looks over at them, recognizing merely a few faces in a river of unknown ones. “Not really.”

“Why’s that?” She asks, settling herself against the bookshelf responsible for casting the shadows Daryl’s currently hiding in.

“I don’t know how.” He says it partly because it’s the truth, and partly because it’s easier than trying to explain something he can’t even understand himself.

“You can watch everyone first, that’s what I do!” She smiles at him, trying her best to look encouraging, probably one of the types who can’t stand to see people left on their own, even people as obviously deserving of it as himself. “It’s easy to pick up.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything, looks away from her and thinks she must be related to Maggie, ‘cause the both of them have that same calm aura around then. Zen, or some shit like that.

“Come on.” She says, gentle encircling a hand around Daryl’s wrist. “You can sit by me.”

Daryl follows her, if only because he doesn’t want to hurt her trying to get his wrist out of her hand. She looks like such a delicate slip of a thing.

“Never have I ever…” Daryl hears Maggie says, a glass in her hand and her teeth biting into her bottom lip in thought. “Gone skinny sipping.”

Michonne, who (despite himself not being able to share the feeling) Daryl is glad to see look so comfortable, groans, tips her head back as she takes a drink. “Aren’t you the lucky one.” She mutters, to the fine spread laughs of a few others.

The game continues in much the same way, the blonde pulling Daryl down to sit beside her against one of the walls.

Daryl watches them intently, seeing the familiarity they all have, the way they just slot into situations like these as if there normal.

It hits him very suddenly, and very strongly, that this might _be_ normal. That maybe the things they’re saying, about holidays and gifts and family are the way things are supposed to be. It makes his chest feel tight, constricted, like someone’s reached into his rib cage and tied an elastic band around his lungs and even though he’s breathing normally it feels like he’s suffocating. 

They’re all such simple things. And even the stuff the blonde girl keeps telling him people are lying about just to get everyone to drink are things he’s never done. Never have I ever eaten this sweet, never have I ever eaten this flavor frozen yogurt, never have I ever named a pet.

He can’t even understand why it’s affecting him so much, just knows that it feels like something’s slipped, like the landslide he was so struggling to hold up earlier has given way and revealed more than he ever wanted, buried him beneath it all and forced him to see it whether he wanted to or not.

He stands up, feeling the careful pull on his sleeve as he goes to turn away.

“Where are you going?” The girl whispers, taking care not to draw attention to him

“Taking a piss.” Daryl whispers back, watching her crinkle her nose at the crude language.

“It’s up the stairs in the hall, to the right.” She let’s go of his arm, Daryl throwing a quick thanks over his shoulder as he walks away.

He finds the bathroom pretty easily considering the size of the house, trying his best to be considerate about whoever may or may not be asleep up here, not knowing if Maggie’s parents are even home. He shuts the door, doesn’t even bother to latch it, just falls to the floor against it and pulls his knees into his chest.

It’s such a weird feeling. How does he ease his breathing when he isn’t even struggling to breathe?

Getting a grip on the sink and pulling himself up, Daryl comes face to face with a mirrored cabinet. He looks a mess, the yellowing bruises making him look sickly, the sweat beading at the edges if his temples and the bloodshot look to his eyes reminiscent of fever.

His body’s still fighting itself in an effort to breathe, his mind telling him to inhale while his lungs are already full and to exhale when there’s nothing left. He knows he needs to calm down, not even because he’s necessarily that panicked but because if his head doesn’t shut up he’s gonna pass out.

Daryl opens the cabinet in front of him, thinking about medicine bottles and the long, ridiculously spelt words that cover the entire back of them, hoping that focusing on trying to read them will counteract the dizziness sweeping over him.

He pulls out one, not even aware of what it is, but before he can try and read it he has to put it down on the sink, his vision swimming so much that he misses and they crash onto the floor.

Daryl moves to pick them up, but he passes out before he can actually to do it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all you lovely people who comment, kudos and bookmark this! 
> 
> A quick note to say that this will be Rickyl, it just really is a slow burn! There will be sexy times though, for all of you waiting for that :)
> 
> There is also more Rick and Daryl interaction soon! and then a nice three chapters with lots of Daryl, Rick conversations a little later as well! It's will get there guys, just don't want to rush it :)

“Where’s Daryl?” Maggie asks, watching the last of everyone’s cars drive away from the house.

“I don’t know.” Glenn says, trying his best to clean up some of the mess left over from the party. “I didn’t see him leave, didn’t see him much to be honest.”

“Bethy!” Maggie calls, shutting the door behind her and walking through to the kitchen. “Did you see Daryl leave?”

“Which one was Daryl?” Beth says, carrying a stack of plates to the sink and placing them into the water, turning round to dry her hands on the towel.

“The one you were talking to.” Maggie says, rolling her eyes at the look of confusion Beth throws at her. 

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” Beth says, swatting her lightly on the arm as she passes, moving to help Glenn in the living room. “I talked to more than one person.”

“When we were playing Never Have I Ever.” Maggie clarifies, taking the bag off of Glenn and letting them both pile rubbish into it.

“He left, went to the bathroom, I didn’t see him again.” 

Maggie ties a knot into the bag, passing it to Beth so she can take it outside. She tries to remember if she’d seen Daryl again sometime after that, but when she thinks about it, she didn’t really see much of him before.

“Glenn can you go check in the bathroom please.” She asks, bending to pick up the broken bits of glass off of the carpet, hoping Daddy will understand that one glass worth of collateral damage isn’t that bad considering this was a party.

“He probably just left, Maggie.” Glenn says, already sitting himself down on the couch.

Maggie sits up, cradles the pieces of glass in her hands and tries to catch Glenn’s attention, only speaking once she has eye contact. “Humor me, please.”

Glenn sighs, looks back at Maggie for a while, only starting to move when he eyebrow rises in impatience. He gets back up off of the couch and moves towards the hallway. “I’m going, I’m going.”

He climbs up the stairs two at a time, turning right at the hallway and walking towards the bathroom. The door’s shut when he reaches it, which isn't only unusual considering everyone in the house uses the larger one further down the corridor, but makes him think Maggie might have had a point about making him check. 

He knocks on the door, just in case Daryl or someone other than Daryl _is_ in there, to give either them or Daryl the chance to speak. 

Glenn’s just putting his ear against the wood when he hears a weird noise from behind the door, almost sounding like a thump but with the residual sound of something scattering.

“Daryl?” He calls, banging slightly on the door when he hears nothing back. “Daryl, you okay?”

When there’s still no response from inside, Glenn pushes the door open. It wedges itself on something, and it’s only when Glenn manages to force it out of the way that he realizes Daryl was the one blocking it.

Unconscious Daryl.

Glenn laughs a bit, assuming Daryl must have had too much to drink, but when he taps his own leg on Daryl’s to try and rouse him Daryl doesn’t respond to the impact, let alone register it. His forehead remains soft, relaxed. His face is too blank, to smooth, the usual soft set lines that mar his face like puppet strings pulling his frown into motion all but erased from his forehead, the usual scowl of his mouth has disappeared, no longer weighed downwards by the constant swirl of sadness that follows Daryl everywhere and anywhere at any given time.

He looks as happy as Glenn’s ever seen him, and the fact that it took this level of unconsciousness to reach that ‘happiness’ makes Glenn realize how sad the guy must be.

“Daryl?” Glenn asks, softer, a softer voice to fit this softer model of someone so usually tough, like syllables too sharp might hurt him. Glenn moves over to him, is about to check for a pulse, for breathing, for whatever he’s supposed to look for in this situation when he realizes the two toned mess surrounding Daryl are pills. 

Suddenly the softness doesn’t seem so supple, transforms itself into harshness and immovability and too many things that remind Glenn far too much of who Daryl is to be so unlike him. Glenn thought this situation looked like change, looked like comfort, looked like relaxation, had though it was enough for Daryl to let his guard down and get drunk and if this was the repercussions of it so be it because he needed the down time. He feels blinded by his lack of sight, the realization that change shouldn’t look so unchangeable.

“Maggie!” Glenn calls, probably the most panicked he’s ever been in his life. Standing up and moving back towards the door until the sound of approaching footsteps tries to contend with the unsteady beating of his heart. Glenn hears Maggie and Beth running up the stairs before he sees them and the both of them only speed up when they finally round the edge of the banister and see the look on Glenn’s face. 

Maggie gets to the bathroom door first, not even pausing, not even flinching, so precise and focused and all he things Glenn can’t be as she rushes forward and puts two fingers against Daryl’s neck. 

“Oh my God.” Beth says, standing in the doorway, not sure whether to move into the room or move away from it. 

“Beth, go get Dad.” Maggie says, having reached over for the bottle lying discarded on the floor, reading the words on it under her breath, breath that drags itself out of her lungs when she realizes what it is. “Now.”

Beth goes, running down the corridor towards Hershel’s bedroom, knowing that calling him wouldn’t been enough to wake him, no matter how urgent it sounded. The girls knew from previous experience that Hershel slept like the dead, and while it came in handy a lot of the time, now it rang like the deep, unwavering sound of bells, the steeple of a church echoing the noise around barren fields and calling out a death toll to all those close enough to hear it.

“What are they?” Glenn says, motioning to the pills around Daryl.

“Beth’s anti-depressants.”

“Could they…” Glenn trails off, not actually wanting to say it, not even sure if he wanted an answer.

“If he took them.” Maggie says, brushing a stray peace of hair out of Daryl’s eyes, her hand trembling and her watering eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Daryl’s chest, not knowing what she would do if it stopped but determined to make sure it doesn’t. “I don’t know how many were in there, Daddy checks them.”

Glenn doesn’t even hear Beth and Hershel coming down the corridor towards him, and maybe it’s the ringing of bells or the panic alarms already establishing themselves as white noise and filling his ears like water, but he only knows to move when Hershel moves him, a hand on either one of his shoulders gently encouraging his heavy feet to lighten themselves and step aside. He steps away, looks to Maggie to see her doing the same, standing up and damn near plastering herself against the tiled wall.

Hershel steps into the bathroom, kneeling down and doing as Maggie had done, two fingers pressed to Daryl’s neck and counting out the beats like prayers. He lets out the same sigh of relief Maggie had at the presence of a pulse and checks Daryl over gently, rolling him fully onto his back when he sees no obvious sign of injury, beginning to alternately tap and shake his shoulder when Daryl still doesn’t respond.

“What happened?” He asks, looking over his shoulder towards the three of them.

“We didn’t see him leave.” Maggie says, “Beth said he came up here last she saw, I sent Glenn to have a look.”

“Was he drunk?” Hershel looks towards Beth, assuming she was the last to see him.

“He barely had anything.” Beth says, looking towards the mess on the floor. “Do you think he-”

“No.” Hershel says “There are too many left and his heartbeat’s steady, not slowing. I think he just fainted.”

“Why?” Glenn asks, noticing the small movements underneath Daryl’s eyelids, hoping that’s a good sign. “Was it the party, something we did?”

“I doubt it.” Hershel says, looking over his shoulder and back towards Glenn. “People faint all the time, it’s the blood supply to the brain being inadequate, plummets blood pressure, he could be dehydrated, could just not be eating right.”

Hershel looks back towards Daryl just as his eyes flutter, opening normally and staring up at the ceiling in confusion.

“Son of a _bitch_.” Daryl hisses, moving a hand to one of his shoulder and going to sit up.

Maggie makes a move to stop him, about to push him back to lying flat, but steps back again when she see’s Hershel doing the opposite, encouraging Daryl to move at his own pace with a hand gently pushing on the back of the shoulder Daryl hasn’t already got a grip on.

“You okay son.” Hershel says, watching Daryl’s eyes flick to his and recoil in shock.

Daryl pulls his shoulder away from the touch, not so much an involuntary flinch as a conscious decision to move. His eyes flicking between Principle Greene, Glenn and Maggie, briefly wandering over the blonde girl he was talking to earlier. He has a minute of thinking this is a dream, mainly because he’s struggling to form a half decent link between the four people standing before him, but he can remember fainting and he can remember waking up, and right now that seems as real as anything ever does. Daryl rolls his shoulder in its joint, figuring he must’ve hit it on his way down.

_Well done Dixon, now you’re an embarrassment to yourself as well as everybody else._

“Why the hell are you here?” Daryl asks, not even thinking about who he’s talking to in the face of his confusion, which only grows when greeted with the smile that spreads over the Principal’s face.

“I live here.” He says and Daryl looks to Maggie, not really understanding the whole situation until he remember Maggie’s last name, the messy scrawl of it on top of ‘their’ English project.

“Greene.” Daryl mutters, thinking about how much of a damn idiot he is for not putting two and two together sooner, how much of an idiot he is for fainting all over the place like a damn damsel in distress. 

Daryl stands up, ignoring the multiple offers of help that surround him, lifelines offered to him in the form of outstretched hands. He keeps his head down, tries not to let his cheeks flare in embarrassment at the mess he’s made all over the damn floor.

_You always do mess everything up._

He pushes past the others, once again ignoring the hands that try to stop him, just trying to get out of the house as quickly as possible. Get on his bike and drive back home and stay where he belongs for the rest of his damn life, where he can’t fuck anything up that hasn’t already been fucked up or embarrass himself in any way that hasn’t already been done for him.

Daryl makes it all the way to the front door before he’s stopped, Principal Greene shutting the door as soon as he’s managed to get it open. Daryl looks over his shoulder, his anger only festering further at the false concern masking their faces, turning strategy into sympathy and playing it off as kindness.

“I can’t let you go yet, Daryl.” Principal Greene says, keeping a hand on the door in case Daryl attempts to open it again. It makes Daryl feel like a little kid that needs protecting from everything, that can’t be trusted to go outside because it isn’t clever enough to play without getting hurt.

It pisses Daryl off, because he’s been the kid outside getting hurt just like he’s been the little kid protecting himself in the woods, and being one never affected his ability to be the other. He got himself out of it just fine, got hurt and got back up again and didn’t take the ropes offered to him, the rotted helping hands that stung like slaps as they pulled him to safety, the ropes pulled tight around his neck and caressing his skin like fingertips. 

“I want to leave.” Daryl says, not moving away from the door even at Maggie’s prompting.

“You just fainted Daryl, at least have some water,” Maggie says, lightly grasping the top of his right arm.

Glenn grabs his left as well and Daryl doesn’t try to flinch away from them so much as his unsteady reactions do it for him. They let go like the shock of his motion shocked their own nerves, and Daryl backs himself into the door, bringing a hand back up to the steady soreness in his shoulder, well enough versed in injuries to know an approaching bruise when he feels it. 

Daryl knows he’s being pathetic, but he feels a little too close to panicked, like an animal backed into a corner and undecided as whether to fight its way out or take whatever it’s given in the hopes that it’ll still be able to crawl its way to safety once all is said and done.

It’s not that he feels threatened by the people surrounding him, he just feels uneasy, unbalanced.

The landslide is still pretty fresh and Daryl doesn’t want to risk another incident.

“Please.” Daryl says, knows that people tend to like it when he begs, when he looks fragile and pliable and just a little bit scared. “I just want to leave.”

Hershel looks at him for a minute, and Daryl doesn’t make eye contact, knows that even if he isn’t offering anything here, even if he isn’t on his knees or bent over a table, the submissive thing tends to get him more than any attempt at dominance ever could.

He opens the door as soon as Hershel lets go of it, practically falling down the porch steps and running the remaining distance to his bike. The moonlight shining on silver is all that allows him to see it from the distance and even though the black of the night swallows most of the bike whole, the silver sections shine like flashlights.

“Daddy doesn’t want you to drive home, you could faint again.” Maggie says, running up beside him and talking to him while he walks.

“I’m fine.” He says, wishes she’d just go away because he’s done enough to fuck up her day and if she keeps giving him the chance to he’s only gonna fuck it up more. He reaches his bike, straddles it as soon as he’s got it and rolls his shoulder out again before grabbing the handlebars, startling when Maggie slams her own down onto them.

“Daryl, stop it.” 

Daryl puts his head in his hands, applies pressure to his eyes sockets and tries to stop himself from crying like a little bitch “Please just let me leave.”

“We don’t want you to get hurt!” Maggie says, the volume of her voice rising as Daryl drags his hand from his face and starts the bike.

“I ain’t your responsibility!” Daryl shouts. “Ain’t your burden to bear!”

“You’re my Daddy’s student.” Maggie says, throwing a hand back towards the house, where Hershel must still be standing.

“Your ‘Daddy’ don’t owe me nothing.” Daryl spits, angrier at himself then at her but not fully able to differentiate the two. “ _You_ don’t owe me nothing!”

Maggie let’s go of the bikes handlebars, no doubt realizing how much of an asshole he’s being, how much of an asshole he always is. Daryl throttles it straight away, before he has a chance to see the look of disappointment on her face, circling around her and speeding of down there road. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to think about any of them, the mess he’s made of the whole damn thing just by showing up.

And he knew he would, he always knew he would. He knew he shouldn’t go from the moment she said he could.

He feels like he just lost the closest thing he ever had to a friend and even though he knew they never could’ve been friends, it was nice to have someone who didn’t hate him, who didn’t look at him and just _know_ that he wasn’t worth a second of their time.

He shouldn’t be surprised, his track record of social success never did run smooth. Hell, the only people who ever even acted like they liked him think he’s a dick and the only teacher who didn’t know he was a no good piece of shit as soon as he walked into his classroom probably thinks he’s some whore. 

_‘And you are.’_ Daryl thinks, and the noise of the engine disguises his sob well, well enough for Daryl to pretend he never even voiced it.

Merle leaving should have been his first clue, because for all the words and the hair ruffles and the stolen Christmas gifts in the world, Merle couldn’t wait to leave his sorry ass behind. Even Dad had always known what he was, what they all are. And what right does Daryl have to blame him, just for taking the lessons learned from his own Dad and beating them into his sons ‘cause it’s the only way he knows to teach them.

_‘We ain’t ashes.’_ That’s what he’d told Merle. But he feels so burnt out, as if everything he is just crumbled into dust and blew away in the wind.

His eyes sting but any moisture in them is wiped away before it forms and he refuses to say he’s crying if he can’t feel the tears fall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, to all the people who continue to support this story, all of you are absolute darlings :)

By the time Daryl gets home, it’s late enough to be considered early. The half broken clock on the wall letting him know that it’s probably one o’clock and that a new crack partway along the circumference of it is doing a good job of making the numbers very hard to read.

His Dad isn’t home, shouldn’t be for a couple more days, and although Daryl’s as happy about that as he ever is, the unnatural stillness that encompasses the trailer makes him wish for the motion of a punch, a shove, a kick to the damn face when he’s down even, so long as it means the whole place doesn’t look so empty and feel so dead. Despite how he dreads the pain of it all, there’s something to be said about the company of others, and seen as Daryl’s officially fucked up the only chance he’d ever likely get of being in the presence of people that don’t want to hurt him, he supposes his Dad’s the only company he’s ever gonna have.

Except Merle, but Merle’s never out of jail long enough to count.

There’s something so unpredictably repetitive about life. That Daryl knows how he’ll end up, but not how he’ll get there, knows what he has to do after, but never what he has to do during. That bruises and broken bones and cuts all come and go, but their colors vary, their positioning changes, their healing time differs in ways Daryl can’t begin to work out and sometimes he just wishes time would stop, so he could work out how to deal with one problem before stumbling upon a new one.

Half sprawled onto the couch, with nothing but the steady silence of the trailer partial to his thoughts, Daryl wonders whether staying at Maggie’s house would’ve made a difference to the solitude.

He hears the truck pull up outside, the headlights sweeping into the room and highlighting everything in it, illuminating things that have no place in the light. The glare of them stings Daryl eyes, but it’s a welcoming distraction from the deeper ache settling itself behind his eye sockets, the constant feeling of sadness that digs so deep it obliterates the ability to form tears.

Although he knows Dad’s back too early and recognizes the implication hidden in every angry step towards the front door, he can’t bring himself to move. 

Dad’s heavy silhouette fills the doorway, the near burnt out streetlamp across the road flicking behind him, illuminating the look on his face as easily as it doesn’t. Daryl knows what’s coming, can already tell that whatever piece of tail Dad was chasing ran to a place he couldn’t follow, or was too quick for him to catch. Knows from the cut above his eyebrow and the blood steadily dripping from his nose that it probably wasn’t his tail to chase. 

He doesn’t even look angry though and that’s the difficult thing. He looks numb, not quite there, gone away with the wind just like the ashes Daryl sometimes feels like and maybe the whole family went up in smoke alongside Mom and none of them have even realized it yet.

It would explain why they're all so damn lost, so insignificant to anything but their own continued failure, the appeal of each other’s fists the only thing that sustains them, the only touch that makes them feel needed, if not wanted.

Dad advances, and Daryl stays right where he is. The faded echo of routine reminds him of old hopes, hopes he hasn’t had the chance to dream in a long time. There’s something inherently painful about the times he believed Dad might change, when he listened to his Mom’s tales of past love, or the one time Merle remembers Dad hugging him, when he shot his first deer out by the creek. There had been something uncomfortable about both of them, the memory of tenderness more foreign then the steady reminders of pain, and in a way Daryl was glad he never had the comparison.

The misplaced longing for company still lingers in Daryl’s bones and perhaps enough hits will dislodge it, maybe even strike it from them.

It’s two weeks later, on the other side of town, that Rick falls down onto the couch in his apartment and makes a mental note to get some damn help next time he moves.

To be honest that’s probably not the only thing he needs help with in this situation, but it’s the most he’s going to admit to.

The hardest part of it all was Carl. He’d been so damn upset, so childish in his disbelief, all too many tears and too many tantrums and not enough time to properly explain what’s going on. He’d stormed to his room, hadn’t even said goodbye, and Lori had put a gentle hand on his shoulder and told him she’d handle it, she’d talk to him, she’d drop him off at 6 pm on Friday. 

Divorce is the best thing for all of them, moving on even more so, but he didn’t anticipate how hard it was to keep everything routine when so many things were changing, to keep everything the same while still allowing everything to change.

Carl didn’t understand it, and Rick can’t blame him because he’s not entirely sure he does either.

He knows Carl will come around at least, knows he’ll progress like all of them will, move on and move forward.

Rick rubs a hand over the stubble peppering his jaw line, contemplating shaving and showering this evening in preparation for the early start tomorrow just as his phone starts to ring.

He gropes for it blindly, glad he had the thought to take it out of his bag just in case Carl rang. He picks it up, doesn’t even look at the name on the screen before connecting the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey brother.” Rick tilts his head slightly, rubs a hand in between the junction of his shoulder and his neck, trying to soothe an ache that isn’t even there.

“Hi Shane.” He says it around an exhale, and it sounds a bit more like a sigh then he wanted it to.

Shane chuckles over the line, but there isn’t that much humor in it, and Rick can’t quite be as content with that as he should. “I know, I’m probably the last son of a bitch you want phoning you at 1 in the morning.”

“I probably should have expected it.” Rick says, either because of recent goings on, or because Shane lived for night-time conversations.

“Look man, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You slept with my wife Shane.” Rick emphasizes, saying it slowly, as if Shane’s struggling to understand. “You _slept_ with my _wife_.”

“Oh come on Rick, you know we ain’t exactly innocent towards all of that.” Shane says, not exactly accusatory but pointing the blame away from himself none the less.

“Nothing ever happened while Lori and I were married, Shane, that isn’t the damn point.”

Rick stops, rubs his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, tries his best not to make his heavy breathing sound so damn obvious over the line. Shane’s quiet too, and it’s something that reminds Rick of how often he isn’t, how much it means that he is now. Silence is often the loudest thing about Shane, as weird as it sounds, he’s more obvious when he’s silent then when he’s talking, more known for what he doesn’t say then what he does.

“Go ahead brother.” He says, clinging to the term like he think’s Rick’s gonna drag it from him at any minute.

“What?”

“Get angry, loose it, shout abuse at me, say all the stuff you need to say, so that next time I see you I don’t get punched in the damn face.” Rick huffs a little, and there’s a moment where it feels like old conversation, the brief pause for Shane’s consideration one that Rick knows well. “Well more than the times I deserve, at least.”

Rick considers it for a minute, dapples over being angry, being bitter, aware that he’s allowed to be, that Shane is allowing him to be. There’s something about it that just doesn’t seem right, the idea that getting angry over this will mean losing something, or losing more than he ever has to gain anyway. It’s as he told Lori, being mad at Shane doesn’t undo the things he’s done, the things any of them have done. If anything, anger will only make the situation worse, and even though the words he _could_ say are perfectly justified it’s the ones he _wants_ to say that get out first.

“This doesn’t change anything Shane?”

“How in the hell does it not?” Shane practically shouts, and it’s a good thing Rick’s ear wasn’t too close to the receiver because the volume of it fuels his approaching headache.

“I’m not- Well I am angry at you, but I don’t hate you.” Rick rolls his eyes, wondering why he became an English teacher when it’s so hard to get the damn words out. “What’s the point in shouting at you, fueling it?”

“To let it all out!” Shane says, like it’s obvious, like he’s been planning the way this conversation would go all day and Rick’s backfired it completely.

“Why bother, why not just let it go.” And it shouldn’t be as easy as it is, but Rick’s got 99 problems to deal with and most of them involve the well-being of someone else. That means it rates higher on Rick’s importance scale then his own ever could.

“For the sake of my beautiful damn face, Rick.” Shane says, half joking and half serious, and so completely Shane. 

Rick feels like he’s found something he hadn’t realized he’d lost.

“Oh, you look like a damn boxer anyway.” Rick says, and it’s so easy to joke, so easy to fool around, to fall back into being brothers.

“I do not, that’s below the belt.” Shane’s obviously starting to believe the fact that Rick isn’t gonna lay into him and slips into the mood of the conversation accordingly.

“Is it?” Rick says, humming contemplatively. “I never noticed anything, do you think I missed it?” 

“Hey now, I phone you up, all good intentions and you do nothing but insult me.” Rick smiles, an indulgent little thing that just curves the corners of his lips, the movement brushes his stubble against the hand holding his phone and reminds him to shave as soon as the conversations over.

“You said I could.” He says, pushing a stray curl off of his forehead and leaning his head back against the couch cushions.

“What.”

“You said, ‘get your anger out.’” Shane goes silent, must be thinking Rick’s finally gonna start shouting, but Rick just laughs. “This, me picking fun, that’s as bad as it’s gonna get Shane.”

There’s another moment of silence, Rick just leaning back and enjoying the easy companionship, pushing the lingering feelings of anger to the back of his mind, a nice little sorting place, to set things aside for a time when he actually needs them.

“Well then what was it you were saying about my face?” There’s humor in his voice now, and Rick had really missed that, he’d really missed this Shane.

The next morning Rick has to take the shower he never got round to because of Shane’s phone call. He showers, shaves, put’s on clothes that are actually ironed and all in all feels a lot better than he has the last few weeks.

Carl phones him over breakfast and Rick can still hear the tell-tale tone of sadness in his voice, the usual conversation topics feeling dull, thoughtless, and repetitive. ‘I miss you’, ‘See you soon’, ‘Be good for your Mother.’

He reminds himself that it’s only been a day, that Carl will need time to come around to change like this, that when Rick sees him in person he’ll feel better about the whole thing.  
It’s something he reassures himself with as he gets into his car, that children are often surprisingly good at taking the time to understand things properly, to think things through before they decide they’re happy with it. 

Driving into school is just as carefully routine as the rest of the morning has been, the same streets, same parking spot, same audacious Audi parked beside him that he thinks might belong to Andrea.

It’s surprisingly comforting in the face of all that has changed.

The day passes much the same way, nothing untoward happening, and Rick begins to think that recent events have given him a new perspective as to what classifies as un-ordinary.

It’s only in the last lesson, when there is no sign of Daryl and his absence leaves an unsettled feeling in Rick’s gut, brings the weight of inconsistency back into his awareness, that he realizes what an idiot he is for regretting routine. It’s perfectly reasonable that Daryl’s just sick, easy enough to think of illness in the face of absence. But Rick finds himself once again drawn to Carol words (as he often is these days).

_'You didn’t notice.'_

He’s noticing now, but reasoning it away. Is that the sensible thing to do or is he trying to remove himself from it all again, distance himself from what is, after all, obvious. He said it himself, knows what he saw and knows what it looks like, what it probably is. Despite all that it’s been four weeks and Rick is still no closer to getting Daryl to see Principal Greene, let alone trying to talk to him himself.

The class ends quickly, most of the students packing away their things and leaving the room before the bell has even stopped ringing. It’s something Rick used to get sad over, before he realized that there was little difference between how much students enjoy the class and how quickly they want to leave. It was hard learned that even the most enthusiastic students would must rather be elsewhere.

There are, of course, always the occasional stragglers to combat the mass of others, Daryl being one of the most frequent to dawdle his way out of the room.

Today though, almost symbolic in his absence, it’s Maggie and Glenn. They’re not really straggling so much as not moving at all, Glenn leaning over Maggie’s desk slightly as they talk.

“He’s not here!” Glenn says, in a way that implied it’s not the first he time he has.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Maggie says, shoving her things into her bag. “What can I do about it?”

“Well how are we supposed to know if he’s okay?” Glenn stands up again, taking Maggie’s bag off her and throwing it over his own shoulder before she can protest against it.

“We can’t, because he’s a damn idiot.” There no malice in her tone, just concerned exasperation. 

“We can’t just do nothing.”

“There’s nothing for us to do-”

“Are you two alright?” Rick interjects, both of them turning around to face him like they forgot he was there.

“We’re fine.” They both say, but they look worried enough to strip any potential humor from it.

“Are you sure about that.” Rick sits down on the desk next to Maggie’s, not particularly expecting them to tell him anything with the way his social skills have been recently.

“Yeah, it’s all good.” Glenn says, Maggie’s eyes briefly flick over to him, not looking nearly so sure.

Rick sighs, stands up again and moves out of their way, resigning himself to the familiar feeling of failure that’s adopting itself as his most prevalent trait. “Well if you need anything, I’m happy to try and help.”

Maggie looks at Glenn for a minute, ignoring his shaking head as she looks back to Rick.

“We were worried about Daryl.” She says.

_You and me both._ Rick thinks, wondering how many people have every worried about Daryl in his life, how many of those people actually acknowledged it.

“Why?” He says instead, sitting himself back down onto the desk as Glenn himself takes a seat.

Maggie eyes flick towards Daryl’s seat and back. “He came to a party we had in the holidays, passed out at my house and drove off before Daddy could properly check him.”

“Passed out?” Rick asks.

“Dropped a load of pills round him on the way down, we thought he’d OD’d.” Glenn says with a smile that’s both relieved and still holds the lingering, unresolved edge of both previous and present panic.

“Daddy said he was probably dehydrated, or he hadn’t been eating right.” Maggie answers, much more seriously but with the same deceptively small amount of worry. “I just wanted to see him, to see he was alright.”

“That’s very kind of you Maggie, and I’m sure he will be.” Rick assures her, assures both of them, assures himself. “Don’t panic yourselves just yet. If he isn’t in tomorrow, we can get your Dad to phone his home.”

“Okay.” Maggie says, nodding her head and letting out a deep breath, standing up as Glenn does and taking her bag back of him before he can put it on again.

“You alright now?” Rick asks, staying seated as they sort themselves out.

“I will be once I know he hasn’t gotten himself killed.” It’s said as a joke, but her smile is bland at best and no one thinks to laugh.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in absolute awe at the support on this! I'm so pleased you are all still enjoying it! Thank you very much for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks :)
> 
> Quick note - When writing this, I was going for Hershel's own speech about his father in season two, but my sister has my box set. So I tried to get it right but it probably isn't! :)

Rick feels a lot of things when he sees Daryl walking across the field towards the school entrance, there’s the obvious relief (because Maggie and Glenn had worried him far more then he though they would) but there’s also an uncertainty there, a slight feel of panic that reminds him that Daryl being here doesn’t mean he’s okay, doesn’t mean the hood over his head isn’t sheltering him from more than the rain. Rick finishes giving out the classes work, excuses himself and walks out into the hallway, waiting just outside his classroom as Daryl approaches the door.

The sound of rain, while not completely blocked by the school’s recently refurbished windows, sounds much quieter, much lighter than it actually is. It’s amplified when Daryl opens the door, as is Rick’s concern when he sees how drenched the kid actually is.

Rick can’t be sure if Daryl sees him or not with his hood over his face and his head nearly perpendicular to the floor, but he makes no move to stop until Rick steps into his path.

Daryl looks up at him, one of his blue eyes brandished with new blue bruises, a bloody graze running parallel to his eyebrow and a shadow around his neck that hints at some form of strangulation. Rick’s gaze rises from Daryl’s neck to find his eyes averted, Daryl’s not stupid enough to think hiding his face will recover what Rick’s already seen. 

There’s a barely there shiver sweeping its way through Daryl’s limbs and the only way Rick can tell is the slight shake of his bangs as they fall over the bruise he was so carefully studying. The kid must be freezing, and even though Rick wants to take off his jacket and give it to him (because it’s common courtesy to do so and Daryl deserves a little bit of kindness), he doesn’t think Daryl would appreciate it, that and the physical contact barrier they’re just about clinging to is still intact.

Daryl’s got his hoodie anyway, drenched as it is.

He belatedly thinks it’s a bad choice of attire for a rainstorm, then has the rather prevalent revelation that Daryl might not wear it to protect himself from the rain, more then use it to hide the things he’s failed to be protected from.

“Can you meet me here at lunch please?” Rick asks, when he realizes that he has a class to get too and staring at Daryl like that is a bit weird.

“I haven’t done anything.” Daryl says, and it would sound like a whine if it wasn’t so deadpan.

“I know.” Rick agrees, taking a step back in hope of alleviating the tense line of Daryl’s shoulders. “I just want to talk.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do.” He tries his best to do this right, give him options but still give him what he needs. Follow Carol’s advice. “But I’d like you to come.”

“What’ll happen if I don’t show up?” Daryl asks, the challenging lilt to his voice not sounding nearly as confident as Rick can remember it.

“Nothing.” Rick says with a smile. “It’ll just be awfully lonely for me to sit here and wait.”

Daryl adjusts his hood against his hair, moving around Rick to walk away. Rick doesn’t stop him, just turns on his heels and watches him go. 

“Does that mean you’ll be here?” He asks before Daryl can disappear around the edge of the lockers.

Daryl stops, doesn’t look back at him but tilts his head over his shoulder slightly, folding in on himself as he does. “I don’t know.”

Walking back into the classroom, Rick picks up the lesson and tries to decide whether it’s more likely that Daryl will be there or not be there. He can’t help but be positive, because despite the questions and the mistrust and the new bruises replacing ones that were so close to disappearing completely, it’s the first time Daryl’s given him an answer, even one that wasn’t definite.

When lunch time rolls around, Rick doesn’t actually know whether he’s more prepared to sit there in solitude for an hour or for Daryl to show up. The clock ticks audibly on the wall and even as the minutes pass Rick has hope that Daryl will show.

The door clicks open, and Daryl walks through, his hoodie still slightly damp despite the rapidly increasing temperature. Rick senses a thunderstorm coming, and he can’t be sure whether that refers to the weather, or trying to get Daryl down to Hershel’s office now that he’s got this far.

_'It’s not about what he wants, it’s about what he needs.'_

“Do you mind if we head somewhere else, some of the kids use this room for the debate club.”

Daryl sighs, looking like it took all of his energy just to get himself here, and what does Rick know, maybe it did. “Yeah.”

Rick leads the way, avoiding people as best he can, looking back to Daryl every now and again to check he’s still following, that he hasn’t lost his nerve or lost his patience and left Rick back at square one. He can’t help thinking this is gonna make things worse before it gets better, and he sort of feels like he’s betraying Daryl’s trust by dragging him to Hershel unwittingly. Despite the self-analytical queries, he can shut himself up easily enough, because he knows he wants to help.

_'Help always comes with a small degree of hurt.'_

Hurt is a pretty accurate way to describe Daryl’s thoughts as well, the uneven gait he’s adopted to combat the pain in his sprained ankle offsetting the balance of his shoulders, making his movements jerkier, causing the fabric of his shirt to bunch together and rub against the wounds on his back.

It’s as familiar as it is foreign. Familiar because it’s happened before and the stinging pain of it reminds him of it whenever he moves, makes him remember days of skipping P.E to avoid taking of his shirt, starting the slow transition to silence in the classroom because it hurt too much to raise his hand. Foreign because it’s been such a long time, all his memories star his childhood face and a different house, a house he remembers from when times were better, when hurts were soothed by hands other than his own and their touch only hurt because it caused pain.

He doesn’t pay much attention to where they’re going until Mr Grimes stops and only when he looks up does he realize exactly why they have.

Daryl goes to turn away but Mr Grimes steps in front of him again, ducking down slightly to catch his eyesight and Daryl’s never been more glad that the Principal’s office rests on a separate hallway to the main one because he knows he’d cause a scene if it wasn’t.

“You said you just wanted to talk.” Daryl says, accusatory, not sure whether he feels angry of upset. He hopes to God it’s angry, he doesn’t know if his body has more tears left.

“I do, in there, with Hershel.” Mr Grimes says Principal Greene’s first name like he meant to say it, and Daryl doesn’t have enough energy to puzzle out why.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” Daryl says, again, because he doesn’t think he has, but he never can be sure and people are always so keen to point out everything he does badly.

“That’s not why you’re here.” Mr Grimes catches his eyes, holds onto the contact like he’s been searching for it. “We just want to talk, that’s all, and you don’t even have to say anything, not if you don’t want to. But if you do, if you have anything at all to say, we want to give you that chance.”

“Can’t I just go?” Daryl asks, his eyes moving between the door in front of him and the end of the corridor.

Mr Grimes steps aside, lets him have a much room as he wants. “If you want to. Just don’t think I won’t keep trying. Don’t think me letting you leave means I’ve given up on convincing you to stay.”

Daryl rolls his wrist along his mouth, biting at his lip in contemplation, trying to weigh out the benefits of quick and easy to slow and steady, wondering why Mr Grimes even gives so much of a shit over some stupid redneck who did nothing more than offer something that someone like him could never want.

He looks towards the door, at the gold emblazoned letters spelling out title and name like a warning, a sign. He can’t be sure whether it’s a sign to go in there or a warning to get the hell out. Daryl glances up at Mr Grimes, and the guy looks so damn eager, so hopeful that Daryl knows he’s gonna stay before he finishes figuring out why he shouldn’t.

“We gonna get this shit over with?” Daryl asks, not thinking Mr Grimes' smile should be quite so wide when his student just swore in from of him.

“Damn right.” He says, and the informal set to his stance and his blatant acceptance of laid back language lets a little bit of the tension drain from Daryl’s mind.

Mr Grimes pushes open the door, motioning for Daryl to walk in before him. Daryl does so, stepping into the room as surely as he can, trying not to look like he’d been debating running before he came in. Daryl’s never been in here before, despite the other kid’s insistence that he’s nothing but trouble and that gets him _in_ nothing but trouble. The kind of trouble Daryl involved in tends to be bigger than the likes of a high school principal can help with, not that Daryl ever cared enough to try.

Principle Greene is sat behind his desk and he smiles at Daryl when he sees him. “It’s good to see you, Daryl.”

Daryl rings his hands together, his eyes flickering over every plaque in the room before moving over to the Principal himself.

“As good as it is to see you on your feet, you should take a seat.” Principal Greene says, “You too Rick.”

Daryl, once again unsettled by the informality, sits down, placing his bag on the floor by his side and trying not to look as unnerved as he feels. 

“It’s okay Daryl.” Principal Greene says, shifting forwards slightly in his chair. “You’re not in any trouble.”

“Why am I here then?” Daryl asks, carrying on instinctively when the Principal doesn’t immediately reply. “Principa-”

“Call me Hershel, Daryl, there isn’t enough time in the world for that many syllables.” 

Daryl glances over to Mr Grimes, looking for any clue as to what he’s really doing here, why they’ve dragged a no good son of a bitch like Daryl all the way over here to talk about his _feelings_ , about how things are going. Daryl wouldn’t touch the whole situation with a ten foot pole if he hadn’t been forced into the middle of it, and he can’t say that sitting here in silence seems worth the effort of dragging him over here.

Hershel’s looking at him oddly and Daryl would feel unsettled if it were any other circumstance. Here it just feels concerned, the type of once over grandparents give you when they haven’t seen you for a while, judging the level you’ve grown, the extent of your perceived malnourished, saying you need to eat more as they hand you a pack of biscuits.

Daryl’s grandparents are long gone, and the return of a feeling he barely knew originally makes him feel a little melancholy.

“Do you want to tell me how you got those, son?” Daryl’s first response is to object to the nickname, before realizing that might be answer enough to the question Hershel’s asking.

“Got in a fight.” Daryl says, the easy out option, the excuse he always uses, that Merle always uses. “You should see the other guy.”

“I’m sure I’d like to.” Hershel says. “If I thought there was another guy.”

“You calling me a liar?” Daryl says, his eyes narrowing and the bittersweet feel of remembrance all but vanished from his mind.

“No, I’m just saying that I don’t believe you.”

“That’s the same damn thing.”

Hershel does that thing again, where he just looks at him, waits for him to calm down before he even considers speaking and even though Daryl has to admit Hershel is a teacher and it’s probably proved an effective way to prevent an argument before, it makes him feel like a little kid.

“What do you want me to say, Daryl?”

“I don’t want you to say nothing!” Daryl says, time out periods pretty much ineffective on Dixon tempers. 

Hershel, sitting back in his chair and looking at Daryl like he expected this sort of reaction, brings his hand up to his chin and rubs along it. He looks towards the window for a minute, gazing out of it contemplatively for a long enough time that Mr Grimes subtly clears his throat beside him. Hershel looks back to Daryl, stares long enough that it makes him uncomfortable even with the underlying grandfatherly vibe.

“Tell me Daryl.” Hershel says, leaning forward onto his desk. “If you thought someone was being hurt, and they told you they weren’t, would you accept that?”

“I’d listen to their story.” Daryl says, leaning backwards into his own chair to re-establish some distance. “I’d take them for their word!”

“It takes more than words to tell a story, Daryl.”

Daryl shifts in his seat, feeling two sets of eyes on him, studying him, stuck by their moral obligation to help some stupid kid who can’t get himself out of his own problems.

“You know my Father was a loveless, violent drunk.” Hershel says. “He taught with his fists. He forced me from the family farm when I was sixteen, and I didn’t see it again until after he died. I wasn’t at his death bed, I didn’t owe him that, and to this day I don’t regret it.”

Daryl hates it when people talk like this, knows that what he’s hearing is wrong, that a father being like that is wrong. But Daryl’s… Daryl’s different, he knows it’s different. His Dad’s trying to do what’s right, trying to show Daryl he deserves it and how is Daryl supposed to think it’s wrong when it’s the only thing that's ever felt right?

“The only reason I didn’t have to go crawling back, the only reason I got out, was because of my grandparents.” Hershel says. “They gave me shelter, they gave me refuge. They didn’t ask me why I was there and they didn’t ask me when I was leaving. They just gave me somewhere to go."

Mr Grimes shifts in the seat beside him, his hand coming up to run through his hair and Daryl wonders if this is the first time he’s heard this story as well.

“Do you have somewhere to go Daryl” Hershel asks, drawing Daryl’s narrowed eyes back towards him.

“I’m not being-”

“I didn’t ask if you were, I asked if you had somewhere to go.” Hershel overpowers his temper so damn calmly, so swiftly. Like they’re talking about rose bushes and fountains instead of people beating the shit out of their kids. Hershel just stays calm, redirecting his thoughts, re-establishing the conversation. 

Daryl can’t even find it in himself to be that mad, mainly because he doesn’t know if he has enough self left. He doesn’t even feel like himself, can’t remember the fierce rise of his temper so much as the steady decent into submission and it feels like pieces of the person he used to be are gone and he can’t even remember them well enough to feel like something's missing.

“No.” He says at last, because it’s not an admission, not really. 

It doesn’t feel like the careful lies him and Merle have, it doesn’t feel like it’s even encroaching on the truth. Hershel can take from it what he likes, and Daryl knows that he probably will, but it still isn’t admittance, still doesn’t touch the reality of it all and that’s probably the only reason Daryl finds enough voice to say it.

“Everyone’s got to have somewhere Daryl.” Hershel says, as kind as he’s been through the whole conversation. “Rick and I, we’ll find you somewhere to go.”

Daryl nods, licks at the sore section of the lip he’s been chewing at for the past half hour. “Can I go?”

“Yes, you can.” Hershel says, Daryl picking up his bag and heading for the door as soon as the ‘yes’ is past him lips. “And Daryl.” He calls, waiting for Daryl to turn and face him. “Take care of yourself.”

It’s a nod towards the party, a brief little reminder, because while Hershel doesn’t think Daryl would intentionally find ways to hurt himself, he doesn’t think he cares enough to avoid them either.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Rick says, once the door has shut behind Daryl and his silhouette no longer stands beyond the door.

“Sometimes,” Hershel starts, “The fastest way to the point is to be indirect.”

Like everything else he says, it rings in Rick’s ears like a life lesson.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the overwhelming support on the last chapter! I enjoyed reading the comments so much, it was lovely to hear what you all thought! Thank you as well for all the kudos and bookmarks! 
> 
> Also not sure if schools in America have 'seating plans' but I put it in there anyway. :)

Maggie smiles at Daryl when he walks into the English room, and even though she doesn’t get the chance to say anything to him he has the feeling she wanted to. He sits much closer to both her and Glenn now, because Mr Grimes had decided to change up the seating plan. He doesn’t think it was unintentional that he was sat beside the two of them, but he also can’t say he minds it all that much.

That’s probably why she comes up to Daryl at break, walking all the way across the field to the tree he usually sits at so he can have a smoke. Glenn isn’t with her, and that strikes Daryl as slightly weird, but he supposes he doesn’t know enough about either of them to classify it as anything.

“It’s a bad habit.” She says, sitting herself next to him so her shoulder’s just about touching his and her back rests against the tree. She places her bag beside her, shifts her weight slightly further towards the dead patch of grass surrounding the tree and watches Daryl smoke until he answers.

“Can’t shift it.” Daryl says, almost wishing he hadn’t picked up his first pack of smokes at 12, if only to avoid her disappointment.

“You don’t have to.” Maggie says, smiles at the general area instead of directly at him. “Just wanted to say it.”

“What?”

“Showing concern, you know.” Maggie says. “Giving a shit.”

“You don’t even know me.” Daryl argues. _And why would you even want to?_

“I barely knew Glenn, still slept with him. Was the best decision I ever made.” She turns to look at him, just as he’s taking a drag from his cigarette and he turns away so as not to blow the smoke over her. “I like taking risks, Daryl Dixon. They pay off a lot more than people think.”

“Not what you said at your house.” Daryl says, stubbing out the cigarette into the grass.

“You passed out in my bathroom.” Maggie looks down to the cigarette in the ground but doesn’t say anything about it. “That’s not a risk, that’s giving me a damn heart attack.”

“No, I meant me leaving.” Daryl says “That was a risk.”

“It was.” She says, looking off into the distance, her eyes following a group of girls making their way into the school. “And I guess in a way it turned out, you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“You tried to stop me.” Daryl adds. “That fit in with this, you get to take ‘em, but not let others take ‘em?”

“I walked into that bathroom and you were out cold, pills everywhere and I thought you’d tried to kill yourself.” Daryl goes to protest but she cuts him off. “I know that’s not what happened, but I thought it had. And I couldn’t take that again.”

Daryl doesn't look towards her, but his head tilts slightly in her direction. “Again?”

“Beth, my sister.” She says. “Tried it a few years back after our Mom died. Same bathroom and everything.”

“That sucks.” Daryl says, because it sounds better than his ‘I’m sorry’ ever could. 

“It did.” Maggie says, tilting her head upward to accompany the agreeable lilt in her voice “She took a risk. At the very least it paid off, she knows she wants to live.”

Daryl rummages through his pockets, searching for another smoke. He pulls one out, lights it and takes a long drag, taps the ashes out and doesn’t feel light, doesn’t feel like the winds going to drag him away from this and dump him back into nothingness. For now he feels settled, he feels stable, and maybe it’s the stinging reminder of pain in his shoulder blades that’s tethering him to the present but he isn’t even contemplating the past.

“Do you wanna live, Daryl?”

“What do ya think I’m doin’ Mags.” The nickname isn’t intentional, it’s just easier. Sums up quite a lot about their ‘friendship’ actually.

“You’re surviving.” She says, smiling at the nickname as though she likes it, and Daryl hopes that’s one step closer to being liked.

“There’s a difference now?”

“Always has been.” It’s said in that tone of voice, when someone knows something that the other one doesn’t, like Maggie’s letting Daryl in on a secret to the universe.

“I don’t get it.” Daryl says, feeling the heat of the cigarette warm his fingers as it reaches the filter.

“Not many people do.” Maggie says, sounding far too intellectual to be in the same class as Daryl, to be the same age. Daryl belatedly thinks that there’s never been a clearer example of either side of the student spectrum then the two of them sat here right now. “Up until you start living, you’re just surviving.”

“You’re a smart one.” Daryl drops the cigarette next to the other one, and even though Maggie looks disapproving she still looks happy. “Anyone ever told you that?”

“I didn’t realize for a long time either.” She leans over Daryl, picks up both of the cigarette stumps from the grassy area and places them in a patch that’s already dead. “It was watching Beth, watching her come out of the hospital and start to care about living. That’s when you realize how much more there is to life than just getting by.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Daryl asks, absentmindedly picking at the calloused skin around his nail and wishing for another cigarette.

“Because you drove away like you didn’t care.” Maggie says. “You weren’t taking a risk, you were being reckless. You weren’t just exposing yourself to danger, you didn’t care about it!”

She looks sad about it, disappointed. But not at him so much as at the situation, at the circumstances. She seems frustrated that he can’t understand it, that he can’t see it, that he wasn’t being reckless he just knew he’d be alright, that it didn’t really matter if he wasn’t. He doesn’t say any of that though, because disapproval’s been simmering beneath the surface of the conversation for most of it, and he doesn’t want Maggie to aim it at him.

“That doesn’t sound like living to me.” She says, getting up and brushing down her jeans. Daryl instinctively gets up with her but makes no move for his bag, shifting back onto the tree and trying to avoid the bark scraping against his lashes. She picks up her bag and starts to walk away and even though Daryl sort of wants to go with her he doesn’t know if he can.

“Oh!” She speaks in the direction of the school building, but turns around to run back up to him, pressing a hand to the top of his arm to stop herself overbalancing as she comes to stand beside him again. “My Dad told me to tell you you’re always welcome, if you need somewhere to go.”

Maggie obviously doesn’t completely understand what the hell that means, but Daryl thinks she must have a vague idea about it. It should probably make him angry, that they know even if he hasn’t told them, but he can’t quite get passed the overwhelming feeling of relief enough to search for the frustration.

Daryl doesn’t answer her, but he does pick up his bag and walk to class with her. He knows there will be things she finds out, if he takes them up on the offer, but there will always be things he doesn’t _tell_ her. His lips curl up ever so slightly and his chest doesn't feel as tight as it has these past few weeks weeks.

It’s later that day, when Daryl’s walked all the way home to a smashed up house and Dad lying unconscious on the floor that he thinks about the offer again.

Watching his Dad sleep is something Daryl used to do a lot. It always felt like searching for something, but to this day Daryl can’t be sure what it was, can’t be sure he ever found it or if there’s even anything there to be found. His Dad doesn’t look frail in his sleep, doesn’t lose the menace, if anything he just looks more tired. His brow’s always hunched, never relaxing, and Daryl knows he has bad dreams. Bad dreams that stem from bad memories. It’s no excuse for what he does and Daryl can only ever hope his own bad thoughts never manipulate themselves into action.

He’s not sure whether Dad’s going to wake up anytime soon, but he knows enough about the pain in his ribs to think that at least one of them must be cracked, which means if Dad wakes up pissed (and when was the last time he woke up anything but) and laid into Daryl again, things could get dangerous very quickly.

_‘Reckless’._ As Maggie would say, it’s reckless to stay.

If he could count this as a risk he might’ve stayed regardless, gone to sleep in his room so he wouldn’t know a beating was coming until it hit him. The waiting, the anticipation of it all is the worst, trying to stop yourself crawling into a ball in panic because you know you’re probably gonna spend half the night curled up in pain. Waiting for it makes him tense, and tense muscles are damaged much more easily.

But cracked ribs can so easily be broken, and even then there’s only a few bits of membrane and muscle between having the ability to breathe and not having it.

_‘Reckless.’_

It’s what makes him jump on his bike again, even though that probably puts as much strain on his ribs as a few hard hitting punches. He doesn’t know if Dad would’ve woken up, just as he doesn’t know if he’ll crash the bike. But considering that he’s been surprised by Dad’s sudden consciousness more times than he can remember and the bike is yet to even get close to the damage Dad’s temper can inflict, he labels it as a risk. 

The Greene family farm is easy enough to locate a second time. The mailbox standing out like a beacon against the sun faded tarmac road, and even the uneven surface of the dirt trail doesn’t feel as damaging as the atmosphere of the trailer had. 

Daryl thinks the house looks completely different in the daytime, larger, grander then he can remember, and what he originally thought were empty fields actually have a lot of livestock roaming them. They spook as he drives past, settle back in place as quickly as they moved away and Daryl feels slightly envious of how quickly they seem to forget.

He parks his bike in the same place he did last time, settling it against one of the trees and walking up to the front door before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t do anything for a while, has to build up the courage and it’s only the temper that flares at the realization that any form of ‘courage’ he ever had has basically disappeared (despite only ever doing something that would frighten others or remaining strong when faced with pain), that makes him knock.

It’s Hershel who opens the door, standing as tall and proud as any man pushing 70 ever will and with Maggie tucked in against his side.

Maggie whose eyes are red rimmed, who looks like she was responsible for the wet patch on Hershel’s shirt. It makes Daryl wish he hadn’t come, wish he’d had the sense to keep his problems to himself, not rise to the unavoidable pull of companionship that had reached out to him despite how often it pulls away. Maggie, who told Daryl her sister tries to kill herself with nothing but reflected determination, whose only show of strong emotion had been the unavoidable flare of exasperation at Daryl himself. She doesn’t seem like the type to cry over nothing, which means Daryl’s just interrupted _something._

“Mags?” He says, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the girl look anything less than happy.

“Hi Daryl.” She says, still managing to hold up her smile even as it trembles and tries to fall, her eyes building up with tears that she wipes at straight away. “I’m sorry, what a mess.”

“It’s okay.” Daryl says, trying to choose his words carefully and not mess anything up. “Cryin’s part of living.” 

“You’re learning.” She says, approving. Even then he’s not sure whether it was the right thing to say, seeing as the tears overflow just as the smile solidifies onto her face and she looks such a mix of emotions that Daryl doesn’t have a hope of deciphering one from the other. Luckily Hershel steps in, moves towards the door and nudges Maggie further behind it, leans down to tell her something before stepping out onto the porch.

“It’s good to see you, Daryl.” Hershel says, motioning Maggie back into the house when she goes to step forward anyway, throwing her a smile before gently shutting the door behind him. He checks to make sure she’s not hit by the frame and Daryl thinks that Hershel did a really good job of breaking the cycle they've both been trapped in, that he must have cared enough to try. “I’m sorry, the girls are a bit upset at the moment, we all are.”

“Is this a bad time?” Daryl asks, still vaguely hearing the muffled sounds of crying from inside the house. 

“I would invite you in, but my eldest daughter’s husband Otis just died and it’s been a bit of a shock to everyone.” Hershel says, placing a gentle hand onto Daryl’s shoulder and encouraging him to move towards the porch chair.

“Should I go?” Daryl says, beginning to turn around as he says it before Hershel’s hand tightens against his shoulder, halting his movements.

“Of course not, I said you were always welcome if you needed somewhere to go.” He says, encouraging Daryl down onto the chair and removing his hand once he knows he’ll stay put. “ _Do_ you need somewhere to go?”

“I’ll be fine if it’s not-”

“Nonsense, you came here, that practically answers the question itself and despite the unfortunate timing, I’m glad you did.” Hershel leans back onto the banister behind him, briefly looking around at the farm before glancing back at Daryl. He thinks for a moment, and Daryl takes that as his cue to sit still and shut up, hoping not to anger anyone when emotions already seen so rampant. “Now you wait here, I’m going to phone Rick to come pick you up.” 

Daryl shakes his head. “No, no I really don’t want to get in–”

“You’re not going to be in anyone’s way.” Hershel assures him, leaning a hand onto his shoulder again as he takes a step towards the door. Daryl’s not sure whether it’s done as a comfort or a constriction but it works either way.

“I drove my bike here though, I can’t just-”

“You can follow Rick to his home.” Hershel argues, seamlessly, smoothly. “Or you can leave it here, he’ll happily drop you off to collect it.”

“But he’s my teacher.” Daryl argues, because surely that’s against some rule, breaks some kind of teacher/student etiquette.

_Like you haven’t already broken it._

“I think current situations render that argument null and void, he’s a human being first and foremost, one that want’s to help.” Hershel remains insistent, pulls the argument away from Daryl like he never had a grip on it in the first place.

“I really shouldn’t, I don’t want to mess-”

“Stop thinking about what you could do, what you should do.” Hershel interjects, leaning forwards slightly, and it doesn’t feel condescending even though part of Daryl thinks it should. “Focus on what you’ve done, what’s bought you here. That in itself is an accomplishment, one that takes courage, one you should be proud of.”

Hershel leaves him on the porch steps, making his way inside to call Rick. Daryl tries to do what Hershel says, not to think about what could happen, but to think about what already has. The fact that he doesn’t have to go back right now, to go and see if his Dad’s still unconscious and deal with the consequences if he isn't makes him feel relieved, but it still doesn’t feel like he’s ‘accomplished’ much.

Dixon’s have never 'accomplished' much, and for all the ‘pride’ his Dad has he hasn’t got much to show for it. Dad’s pride stems from the novelty items he has lying around the house. His shitty TV, his cigarettes, his shotgun, his booze. He’s never been proud of the things other people are, never had the sentiment. There’s no pride placed in Daryl or Merle just as there’s no love. The Dixon manifesto remains’ solely based on miscellaneous crap, and maybe the reason Merle and Daryl can’t seem to find pride in anything except each other is because they don’t want to end up like that.

He doesn’t feel proud of himself, but the fact that someone thinks he should makes him want to try.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this every chapter (but it deserves to be said every chapter), thank you all so very, very much for the continued support on this story! Comments, kudos, bookmarks - I love them all, and you're all amazing! 
> 
> As a quick note, I tagged this slow burn (because it is hella slow), but I'm not really sure how slow slow burn is? I don't want to annoy anyone for taking too long to get to the fun stuff, and although this definitely will be Rickyl and there will be smut, I sort of wanted to establish the emotional connection first (does that sound lame?). So for all of you waiting (very patiently, I may add) for the smut, it will get there! Eventually! :)
> 
> Also - A whole chapter of Rick and Daryl interaction! There's more where that came from :) Thank you all!
> 
> WARNING - for the vaguest sense of instructing a child on how to give someone a blow job, but it's not said in any way other then derogatory to the person who says it.

Daryl isn’t waiting long before Mr Grimes’ car pulls up, looking uncharacteristically dark against the pale green grass lining either edge of the road. It’s a long driveway and Daryl’s staring for a long time before he hears the front door open again. He drags his eyes away from the approaching car to see Hershel walking back onto the porch, he moves towards the steps, a smile sent to Daryl over his shoulder as Mr Grimes parks his car, stepping out of it and up to the porch. 

Both of them remain standing, and Daryl can’t help but feel strangely uncomfortable being the only one sat down. He stands, steps forward to be closer to the conversation even as part of him screams to get the hell out of earshot lest he hear something he doesn’t want to. The other part is nudging into his consciousness, telling him he needs to be further away then that, run back to the house and stay there, where harsh words are already known and routine establishes itself in remnants of what it once was.

“Hey Daryl.” Mr Grimes says with a warm smile, turning back to Hershel once Daryl nods at him in reply. It’s not how Daryl had expecting to be greeted, he’s not entirely sure he was anticipating a greeting at all, but he appreciates it regardless. “Hershel, I’m sorry about what’s happened.”

“Thank you, Rick.” Hershel says. “Both for the thought and for coming over.”

“I was happy to.” His gaze falls to Daryl before looking back to Hershel. “Carl’s coming over later, he’ll be happy for the fresh face.”

“Carl?” Daryl says, the question bringing both sets of eyes towards him. He doesn’t look away, despite the ache in his eyes from forcing the contact when they so want to look away. He does duck his head slightly, but it feels like meeting his cowardice half way and he supposes that's better then outright giving in.

“My son.” Mr Grimes' smile increases incrementally and if Daryl’s judgement of Rick Grimes is at all accurate he seems like a damn good Dad. 

Daryl’s never met many people who smile like that when talking about their kids, most of the people in his life didn’t want kids, labelled them as mistakes before they were even born and treated them as such when they were. They were something to be ignored, disliked and removed. Daryl’s own Dad had pushed his Mom down the stairs when she told him she was pregnant with him, said he’d tried to get rid of two problems in one go but never was good at doing things right. 

_‘Boy if I’d been half as drunk as I was on the night you forced yourself into the world, I’d’ve had the sense to drown ya.’_

“Are you sure you want me around your kid?” Daryl asked. He doesn’t exactly qualify as role model material after all, the only thing he could teach the kid was how not to gag on someone’s cock. The thought of that’s enough to make Daryl feel sick, and he belatedly hopes the feeling passes before he has to get in Mr Grimes car.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Mr Grimes looks pretty confused about the question, and Daryl wonders if he’s forgotten that he’s talking to the student who offered him sex. That’s not even the only answer he could give, but he doesn’t think he has time to explain the list of reasons why no one should want Daryl, or any Dixon for that matter, around their kid.

“I’m not very much of an example.” Daryl says. “All's I know how to do is smoke and get drunk.” 

It’s practically the Dixon mantra, and even though Daryl hadn’t intended it to sound so damn depressing, it was a good summary of reasons.

“You smoke, you drink, you ride a motorcycle.” Mr Grimes says. “Daryl my kids gonna love you.”

“You don’t want him loving that shit.” He’s not entirely sure whether he meant to refer to the dubious activities or himself, but either way it’s a valid point.

“He’s gonna be curious sooner or later.” Mr Grimes says, stubborn smile fixed in place and refusing to budge. “Why not have him learn about it from someone who I trust.”

Again, with people saying sentimental things about him when they barely even know him, the amount of faith being put on him weighs on his mind, even when the idea of having that trust makes his heart want to fucking fly.

“We better go though.” Mr Grimes says, looking at his watch. “I only have a couple of hours before I have to pick up Carl and I want to get you settled first.”

“How long do you think I’m staying?” Daryl asks, even though he doesn’t intend for it to be a question, it was supposed to sound arrogant, self-confident, like the old his used to be so good at pretending to be. Now it just sound feeble, questioning, like a touch starved animal hoping for a hug instead of a boot to the ribs.

“As long as you need or want to.” Mr Grimes says, no hesitation in his voice. “Oh, though Hershel told me about your bike. I don’t mind you bringing it at all, but I only have the one parking space and I don’t want it to be damaged on the road.”

“It’s my brother’s, Mr Grimes.” Daryl says, for the first time feeling just a little bit ashamed of the SS insignia plastered all over it. 

“Call me Rick, Daryl, we’re not in school right now.” Mr Gri- Rick says, placing his hands on his hips and looking out over to the bike. “I really don’t want it scratc-”

“It can stay here for now.” Hershel says from behind them, placing a light hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “The only thing that’ll be interested in it is the cows, and they’re pretty passive about machinery.”

Daryl smiles just a little bit, rattling of a ‘thank you’ in what is quickly becoming an easy gesture. Rick claps Hershel on the shoulder, taking sure footed steps down towards his car, his bow legs extremely pronounced in the jeans he has on, his boots giving him a proper southern look that Daryl hadn’t really noticed before. Daryl says a quick goodbye to Hershel, surprised that he even thought to say it, before following Rick to his car, sliding into the passenger seat as Rick turns on the engine.

The Greene’s farm looks no less imposing as it fades into the distance behind them, and Daryl hopes Rick’s place is a little more downsized, if only so he doesn’t feel like a speck of nothing marring something grand.

“You alright?” Rick questions, his eyes flickering towards Daryl and taking in the way he’s looking back over his shoulder.

Daryl hums an affirmative, looks back around to face the front of the car, only slightly hesitating before beginning to speak. “Just… Never needed somewhere to go before.”

“There’s no shame in it.” Rick assures, shaking his head in emphasis. “Not a single bit.”

“I know.” Daryl says, even though he still feels like such a pussy about it. “Feels like giving up.”

“Admitting you need something?” Rick asks, carrying on once Daryl acknowledges his question with a nod. “That’s not giving up, that’s trying your best to keep going.”

Rick briefly looks towards Daryl, taking in the reddened patch of his lip that is repetitively dragged through his teeth, the downcast eyes that cast shadows over bruises and make his entire face look gaunt. Not that Daryl isn’t already too thin, something Rick’s been unofficially considering the cause of his fainting episode at the Greene’s. He glances back at Daryl, back at the road, checking both things with equal care, because either of them could be equally mistreated in situations as precarious as this.

“There’s no shame in needing something Daryl.” 

Daryl knows that, he just needs to be able to repay it, give something back. It makes this the whole thing difficult to accept, because Rick’s already denied the only thing he has to offer.

The reach the house eventually, the house which Daryl is somewhat surprised to see is not a house. He follows Rick inside anyway, up a couple of flights of stairs inside what is admittedly a very nice building. Rick stops at one of the doors, unlocking it and stepping aside to let Daryl enter first. Daryl does so slowly, cautiously, almost feeling as if the grounds going to cave in, or the rug will be pulled out from under him and he’ll end up back in Dad’s house, alone when no one’s there and lonely when they are.

The apartment’s spacious, much larger and much less cluttered then both the trailer he lives in now and the house that burned with Mom. Rick walks past him, and Daryl looks to see that he’s taken of his shoes by the door and shoves his own of in consideration. 

Might as well try and get this off to a good start anyway seeing as there will be plenty of opportunities for him to mess it up later.

Now shoe-less, he follows the sounds he can hear further into the apartment, stepping around a dividing wall to be met with a kitchen, the shine of stainless steel reminding him of the tables he sits at with Merle while he’s visiting. This doesn’t feel as entrapped, is much more homely then that and Daryl finds himself relaxing enough to sit at one of the breakfast bar stools and watch Rick cook.

“I thought you might be hungry.” Rick explains, grabbing some juice and food out of the fridge and shutting it with his hip. It’s such a startlingly domestic thing to Daryl, so stupidly normal, the eat pancakes on Sunday’s and play baseball in the yard type of family vibe to everything Rick does.

He pours juice into two glasses, passing one over to Daryl and taking a gulp from his own as he waits for the electric stove to heat up. “Do you like pancakes?”

Daryl doesn’t answer straight away, mainly because he isn’t positive that he can give an answer. He can only remember having pancakes once, when he was very little and Merle let him go over to one of the other boy’s houses. His Mom had made pancakes, all smiles and hugs and kisses and Daryl had been both confused and excited at the whole ordeal, finding a strange sense of longing in his chest every time the boy’s Mom kissed him on the cheek or ruffled his hair.

The boy had been embarrassed, a flush pulled to his cheeks at every display of affection, and Daryl had thought it incredibly weird that someone could become so red in the face from happiness as opposed to humiliation.

The whole thing hadn’t lasted very long. The boy’s Dad had come home, and while he’d smiled and hugged his son when he ran to greet him, the smile had fallen as soon as he spotted Daryl. 

Daryl had known, even at that age, that Dixon’s were not liked by the rest of the community, but he’d allowed himself to be lulled into the false sense of security, to daydream of happy smiles and happy families. It’d all come crashing down pretty quickly and Daryl had been out the door despite the misunderstanding protests from the boy, who he never got the chance to befriend properly. 

It’s taken him a long time to reach home, and it’d started raining half way back. Merle had pulled him inside and dried him off, reminded him not to _'start crying like a little bitch because his boyfriend didn’t like him no more'_ , and pushed him towards his bedroom with a heavy hand and a long suffering sigh.

When Daryl woke up the next morning, he had a fever. Dad was nowhere in sight, Merle was out again and Mom never answered him when he called to her through the door anymore.

It hadn’t been a good experience, but out of all of it he thinks he’d liked the half pancake he’d managed to eat while he was there.

“Yeah.” He says, thankful that Rick doesn’t choose to say anything about the weirdly long time it took him to get to an answer.

“That’s good, it’s about the only thing I can make.” Rick grabs some ingredients from the cupboard as he speaks, measuring them out and pouring them into a bowl. “It’s my wife’s recipe though, so we’ll blame her if they’re awful.”

“Wife?” Daryl hadn’t seen anyone else here. “She at work or something?”

Rick stops whisking the ingredients together for a second, looking over at Daryl as he takes another drink. “My wife and I are getting a divorce, she’s staying in the house with my son and I moved here.”

That explained the absence and the apartment. “Why are you getting a divorce?”

“She’s been sleeping with my best friend for two years.” Rick answers, with far less venom to his voice then Daryl would expect.

“That sucks, man.” Daryl says halfway round a mouthful of orange juice, deciding as he had with Maggie that it works better than ‘I’m sorry’.

“I guess it counts as payback, I used to fuck him all the time.” Rick’s entire body fucking halts, and from what Daryl can see of his profile before he starts choking on his orange juice, he looks mortified that he just said it.

Rick hears the odd sound of chocking behind him and turns around just in time to see Daryl spit the mouthful of orange juice he’d taken back into the glass. Normally it would look disgusting, but Daryl wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks in his direction and all in all it’s actually pretty cute.

“That wasn’t really an appropriate thing for a teacher to say.” Rick says, holding out a hand for Daryl’s juice. “Do you want me to pour you a new one?”

“No, I ain’t gonna waste it cause of some spit.” Daryl says, tipping the glass up and sipping it like nothing ever happened. Rick turns back to the stove, trying his best not to put too much mixture into the pan with what is steadily developing into such a prominent distraction behind him.

“So, fucked him while you two were dating, or…?” Daryl says, trailing of suggestively and raising his eyebrows when Rick glances towards him over his shoulder. And maybe it’s the atmosphere, or maybe it’s that the company hasn’t belittled him for every word he’s said but he feels more confident then he has in months.

“Mostly before Lori and I were dating.” Rick says, flipping the pancake as he says it and trying his best not to fuck it up like he usually does. He stops, makes a face and it looks almost painful for him to spit it out. “And a couple of times while we were.”

Daryl snorts behind him, but luckily Rick hears no more sounds of back-washed orange juice and assumes Daryl’s becoming better at predicting his comedic timing.

“But never when we were married.” Rick says, picking up one of the plates and slipping the pancakes onto them, trying to judge the most edible looking ones so he could give those to Daryl. He sighs as he hands it over and sits down heavily into his own seat. “I’m not proud of it, and she isn’t either.

“What about the guy?” Daryl says around a mouthful of pancake, not even bothering to cover his mouth, and Rick smiles slightly at the lack of any table manners, finds it altogether quite refreshing after living with someone who wouldn’t allow elbows on the table for 14 years. 

“He has a way of getting people to like him.” Rick explains, and it’s pretty true all things considered. “And a way of getting people to hate him.”

“So you angry at him?” Daryl waits to swallow until after he speaks and Rick’s smile stretches further along his face at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I’m not angry at anyone, it’s for the best.” 

“That’s what they all say.” Daryl ventures, feeling like he’s rocking the boat a little bit, but finding his tension further evaporating when Rick doesn’t let it tip.

“It’s the truth.” Rick says earnestly, sweeping up both their plates when he realizes they’re done and depositing them into the sink. He picks up his phone, checks the time and decides he might as well start heading off to get Carl.

“Do you mind me leaving you here for a bit?” He asks, reaching over to his discarded coat to grab his keys and holding them up as if in explanation. “I need to go get Carl.”

He starts walking towards the doorway, listing off varying methods of entertainment as he goes, reminding him that there are juices in the fridge and telling Daryl to make himself feel at home just as he reaches to open the door.

“Wait.” Daryl says suddenly. Rick turns to look at him, aborting all movement to reach for the door as he refocuses on Daryl. “Could I-”

It’s not that Daryl doesn’t want to watch TV for the first time in years, or relax on the couch without the worry of being thrown off it, or continue to drink orange juice without one of Dad’s friends trying to feel him up. He just feels so unbelievably awkward at the thought of being in the apartment while Rick isn’t there.

“I,” Daryl stops, takes a breath to get his wits about him and tries again. “Can't I come with you?"

Rick doesn’t question it, doesn’t even hesitate, he just opens the door to let Daryl through. 

Daryl can’t say that there isn’t the creeping feel of anxiety threatening to fuck this up at any moment, but it feels more subdued then he can ever remember it being.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on the last chapter and throughout this story! You guys really make me want to keep writing! :)
> 
> Thought I would clarify that Rick is about 32 in this. Him and Lori would've got married at about 17 and had Carl at 21. I don't think I ever mentioned Rick's age before, which is a bit stupid on my part. :)

Carl does soccer and apparently today had been a tournament, which explained why Rick had waited until 7pm to pick the kid up. The ride there had been quiet, Daryl choosing to look out of the window rather then engage in conversation and Rick being perceptive enough to pick up on his aversion. 

Daryl doesn't honestly know why he thought coming with Rick to pick his kid up was a good idea. He'd never been around kids long enough to determine if he even knew how to cope with them and all the other things that could factor into his competency pointing to a startling lack of it. It felt like he was encroaching on family, not even specifically so much a generally, and Daryl didn't know enough about that to even contemplate how to accurately portray any level of understanding.

"You okay?" Rick asks, breaking the self imposed silence Daryl has shrouded himself in, flickering his eyes to Daryl in between checking the road.

"Yeah." Daryl says, and even though he knows Rick can tell it's not the truth he doesn't question why Daryl lied, doesn't query the significance of it in any way Daryl can recognize an flag as dangerous.

The school they pull up at is foreign to Daryl, tall buildings and un-smashed windows a far cry to his memories of middle school.

The teachers there had been as down and out as the children were expected to be and even then, despite Merle’s assurance that middle school was easy, they always asked question he didn’t understand. Things like _‘What did you get from Santa Daryl?’_ with red and white pointed hats sat atop their hair, or _‘Are you and your brother gonna go see the fireworks tonight?’_ , when everyone started making a fuss about the fourth day of some month and they didn’t know Merle was already in jail again.

Obviously he knew what those questions meant now, but he still wouldn’t have had a reason to answer them.

This school looks nicer, friendlier. All kids size hand prints up the wall and chalk hopscotch drawn onto the tarmac.

Daryl’s school used to do that as well, but his arms always shook too much to draw the lines and whatever hand they always wanted to print with was too often covered in hastily wrapped bandages, the edges fraying and dipping into the paint no matter how hard Daryl tried to keep them clean.

The bell rings, echoing through the playground in waves, rebounding off of everyone else and cutting straight into Daryl's skull, sticking like shrapnel and slicing like scalpels. All the kids swarm out of the doors in muddy red and white soccer gear, rushing to their parent’s eager arms and throwing them around them, the parents uncaring of the mud that smudges into their own clothes, the sweat that's pressed into their skin.

Daryl watches Rick from where he elected to remain in the car, as a boy no more than eleven rushes up to him. Rick bends down to greet him, sweeps him up into his arms and kisses his hair like he really has missed not having him around. The stay that way for a while, arms wrapped around each other as tightly as they can, words exchanged between them with smiles plastered onto their faces.

Daryl can't help but wonder what that feels like.

He can’t decide who he’s more envious of, but thinks it might be both. The indisputable love the both of them can always rely on, always expect. The safety net lovingly disguised as the promise of perpetual care.

They turn around, walking back towards the car and Daryl tries his best not to look as unfriendly as he usual does when he sees Rick point him out. Carl doesn’t smile, but nor does he frown, his expression retaining the childish version of honest inquisition it had adopted when Rick first stated talking.

The make it to the car, Rick watching as Carl clambers into the back seat and slots himself into the gap between the front ones, leaning himself into Daryl’s space when Daryl turns to watch Rick sit himself in the driver’s seat and start the car.

“Hey Daryl.” He says, and Rick throws him an indefinable look as they pull from the parking lot out onto the main road.

Daryl tilts his head to further see Carl, tries his hand at a small smile and receives one in return. “Hey kid.”

“My name’s Carl.” He says, crinkling his nose at the nickname and looking a little offended that Daryl’s doesn’t already know.

“I know that, kid.” Daryl says, swinging his head back round to glance at Rick, who’s studiously staying out of the conversation and leaving Daryl to fend for himself. It’s unfamiliar territory, and Daryl would’ve appreciated a hand. He doesn’t want to scare the kid half to death over something he finds insignificant. “Your Dad told me.”

“Then why are you calling me ‘kid?”

“Cause you are a kid.”

“But kids are baby goats?” Carl says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world even though Daryl’s never heard shit about it.

He looks to Rick, making it obvious this time and Rick glances towards him before laughing quietly and shaking his head. “I’m not taking sides here, but Carl’s right.”

“Told you.” Carl gloats, finally leaning back and sitting into his seat properly.

“Well I ain’t never heard nothing about it.” Daryl says, looking back at Carl over his shoulder and smirking at him. “Bet your Dad’s just saying that because he has too.”

“Nu uh!” Carl pushes himself back between the seats, forcing himself closer to Daryl with an equal smirk lightening his own features. “He’s saying it because I’m right!”

“If you say so, kid.” Daryl turns back around to face the windscreen, feeling pretty accomplished at the proud smile Rick keeps sending him, it’s probably aimed more at Carl but Daryl’s finds he doesn’t even mind just being associated with the feeling, with the praise.

“Stop calling me that.” Carl whines, his face entirely too close to Daryl’s ear for that to be a pleasant experience.

“If you says so, baby goat.”

Carl huffs as he leans back to slouch against the his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and trying his best to pout. Daryl would worry, but he can see his smile in the wing mirror.

It doesn’t feel like it takes as long to get back to the apartment as it did to get to the school, and Daryl can belatedly remember one of his teachers explaining the reasoning behind it. He can’t quite remember what they said, something about established memories and your brain recognizing them. He’s pretty sure he didn’t understand it when he did remember anyway, so it feels a bit redundant.

Rick pushes them both into the lift, Carl still trying his best to keep up the affronted act, but finding it increasingly difficult to stick to with how little Daryl reacts to it.

They’re barely even in the apartment when Rick’s phone goes off. He answers it with one arm out of his jacket, not even bothering to shrug out of it completely as the conversation continues. Daryl focuses on watching Carl, thinks that the least he can do is make sure the kid doesn’t die while Rick’s otherwise occupied.

Carl’s moving from room to room, opening cupboards and the fridge and checking inside of those redundant storage spaces scattered all over the damn place. It’s hard to keep track of, and Daryl only remembers that this is the kids first time in the apartment when he comes back over towards Daryl and asks _him_ where the glasses are.

Daryl can’t help but feel like he’s overstepping some undisclosed boundary as he reaches into one of the higher shelves for a glass, something he only knows because Rick had done it earlier. He moves towards the fridge and pulls out the orange juice, feeling a little bad when there isn’t quite enough for a whole glass, seeing as how he was the one drinking it earlier. He hands it over to Carl anyway, leaves the empty container on the side because he has no idea where it’s supposed to go. 

Carl doesn’t seem to want to move, even when he's finished his drink, and seen as Rick isn’t off the phone yet Daryl sits down on the opposite side of the breakfast bar and fiddles with an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Why are you here?” Carl blurts out, looking a bit ashamed that he even said it. Normally a question like that would anger Daryl, or send him into a panic, but he knows the kid didn’t mean anything by it as much as he knows it’s a very legitimate question that deserves to be answered.

“I keep asking myself that, kid.” Daryl says, rolling the apple against the counter and trying to catch it each time it topples over the edge.

“Not a kid.” That Carl accepted that as an answer means the world to Daryl, because he really hadn’t know what else to say. He smirks back at Carl, registering what he said.

“I keep asking myself that, baby goat.”

“It’s the same thing.” Carl says with another huff, that disagreeable smile still perched on his face.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The look on the kid’s face says he’s taking that as a challenge, but he doesn’t get the chance to contend with it before Rick walks in. He’s put his jacket back on, slipping his phone into his jean pocket as he runs a hand through his hair, further misplacing the curls in his attempt to fix them.

“That was your Mother.” He addresses to Carl, not bothering to pull out a chair himself and instead just propping himself onto one of the counters. “I need to go pick up Lacy, she’s whining for you.”

“Can I come with you?” Carl asks, perking up from where he had been in the process of picking mud out of his nails. Daryl looks down to the glass he’s given him and notices the muddy hand print's all over it, slightly too late in his realization that he really should’ve got the kid to wash his hands first. It looks like failure, like all the times Daryl couldn't add colorful hand prints to a blank wall and the fact that he's only managed to mark something which was never supposed to be marked highlight's the failure even more.

“No, it’s too late and you’ll make her too excited on the way back.” 

“Who’s Lacy?” Daryl interjects, dragging hie eyes away from the glass with the silent promise to wash it later. He only asks because it sounds vaguely like a kids name, maybe a baby, and as nice as Carl is he doesn’t think he could deal with the pressure of being around two young children.

“Our dog, a collie to be precise.” Rick answers. “One who loves Carl far too much to spare the state of my car if she sees him.”

Carl looks upset about it, but it’s the type of childish misunderstanding of perfectly acceptable reasoning Daryl sees on TV programs and movies, so he supposes he isn’t actually that sad. Rick looks between the two of them for a minute, debating his options, his eyes falling onto the muddied glass in-between them for a minute before flickering to Daryl.

“I’m sorry to pressure you with this and feel free to say no and I’ll work something out,” Rick starts, his eyes not breaking their contact with Daryl’s own. “But would you mind watching him while I’m gone.”

“I’m not a kid, Dad.” Carl whines, looking absolutely mortified that Rick is asking someone to _‘look after him’_.

_I know that feel kid._

“He ain’t a baby goat, Rick.” Daryl says, his newly acquired but fragile sense of pride flaring at the smile that sets across Rick’s face. It’s said half in an attempt at humor and half in acceptance of Carl’s statement. He’s not sure how families like this work, but Daryl knows he was plenty capable of looking after himself at Carl’s age. He doesn’t know how having people around who care enough to help might alter that, or whether it’s even something that’s considered ‘normal’ in other families. It’s normal enough to Daryl for him to indirectly query it, either way.

“I know you aren’t.” Rick says, directing the statement towards Carl. “But it would put my mind at ease if you could pretend he is one for a while.”

Daryl bites at the inside of his lip a little. “I’m not very good with kids.”

“You’ve been doing fine.” Rick says, his eyes once again flickering to the glass of orange juice on the table. Daryl thinks that’s a pretty bad example considering how he messed up something as simple as basic hygiene.

“But I don’t know how to look after them.” Making sure they don’t die doesn’t really classify as ‘looking after them’ after all. Daryl has enough experience of the former and enough insight into the later to recognize the difference.

“I won’t be gone longer than an hour and a half.” Rick encourages, still not breaking eye contact with Daryl. “He had food with his team, there are drinks in the fridge and I’ll leave you my number.”

Daryl still doesn’t feel particularly convinced, an odd look to his face that Rick decides much be a precursor to panic. Rick leans over towards Carl and asks him to go have a shower, Carl grumbles a bit about the whole situation but goes regardless, pulling off his dirty gloves and leaving them on the counter before he does.

Rick leans back in towards him, his forearms resting along his thighs. “I really am sorry, I didn’t expect this.” He says, as earnestly as Daryl can remember him looking. “I can phone someone up to come over, but I didn’t know if a stranger in the house would make you uncomfortable."

It’s good insight on Rick’s part, because even the prospect of being alone with Carl, someone he has _met_ , a damn _kid_ , is making him a little uncomfortable.

“No, I don’t wanna-” _cause trouble._ “It’s just I don’t-” _know what to do_. “I’ve never-” _had to look after anything but myself before and look how well that went._

“It’s not a difficult as you think.” Rick says, looking like he heard all the words that Daryl didn’t say as well as the ones he did. “He’ll be in the shower for half an hour trying to get the mud off and it’s the weekend, he can watch TV until I get back.”

Daryl clenches his hands into fists to stop them shaking, because even though it sounds straightforward and he knows he can do it, this is something he really doesn’t want to fail at.  
“You’re good with him.” Rick says, a hand coming to rest against his shoulder, another encouraging Daryl to un-clench his own. “And I trust you. I hope you know that”

Daryl nods to himself a bit more than at Rick, trying to take on the words of encouragement rather than let them slide over him. It’s the two that stick out. Trust, hope. They don’t have the negativity Daryl’s used to associating with them. It’s not _‘I trust you won’t mess this up’_ , or _‘I hope you’ll do what I wanted you to do’_ like so many other teachers have said to him before. There’s no threat in it, no threat following it, and he’s using the words for their meaning rather than their implication.

It’s not degrading, not a ridiculed concept of something that’s been twisted and mangled until it barely resembles what it’s supposed to mean. It’s the feeling of reliance rather than dependence, and the trust binds him more than control ever could. 

“Okay.” Daryl says, telling himself to believe for once, to believe that he can do something right, that he can be more then _‘nothing special’_.

“Are you sure?” Rick seems to notice that something’s just slipped, that something in Daryl finally decided to descend into place rather than fall straight past it. It feels better, doesn’t feel like picking up shards of yourself and wishing you’d never tried to fix the cracks.

“Yeah.” Daryl says, and for once his admittance of being all right doesn’t seem like a complete lie. “I can do it.”

Rick smiles at him, slipping off the counter with a pat to Daryl’s shoulder, shouting a goodbye to Carl that presumably wasn’t heard. Daryl will probably relay the message anyway, however much he hates goodbyes.

This one doesn’t seem so final, feels more like moving forward.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say thank you every chapter (mainly because I continue to be amazed that people are still enjoying this) but thank you so, so, so much for all of your support on this story! I didn't expect it to get this long but I'm having a great time writing it! Thank you for all of your kudos, comments and bookmarks!! :)
> 
> TW for a Panic attack in this chapter (kind of like one a least, I don't get them myself so I was going off a friend's experiance) :)

Rick gets back just as the sky is turning a rustic orange from the steadily setting sun.

Although Daryl’s trying his best to pay attention to Carl, the autumnal light illuminating the room reminds him of long nights in the woods. The ones where running was an option that made him feel as free as the birds flocking above him, and the ones where running was the _only_ option, made his heart beat like a hummingbirds wings in mockery of what he once felt he was. It was watching the steady sanctuary of the forest be transformed into a well-known hazard, the dangers flocking around him like a safety net, protecting him from the real threats that hide in the shadows of safety.

Carl had been easy to look after anyway, much to Daryl’s surprise. Had merely sat and asked Daryl questions about everything and anything, never personal enough to make Daryl feel anything other than cautiously relaxed.

“How old are you?”

“17.”

“Does that mean you can drive?”

“I ride my brother’s motorcycle.”

“Doesn’t your brother need it?”

“He’s in jail.”

“He lets you ride it?”

“When he doesn’t need it.”

Most questions where interrupted by various exclamations, Carl often telling Daryl how _‘cool’_ he is, how he wishes he had a big brother that could _‘give him awesome things too’_. Daryl listens quietly, speaks when he needs to but lets Carl carry the conversation, looks directly into that enthusiasm and can’t bear the thought of shutting it down, of telling him anything other than the sparingly good details of his life. 

When Rick gets back, Daryl and Carl are sat on the couch, watching TV and making their way through a tub of cookies Daryl had found in one of the cupboards. He hadn’t wanted to eat any of them, believing that to be a definite step out of bounds he wanted very much to remain inside of, but Carl had called him out on it and ended up pushing more in Daryl’s direction then he did towards his own.

As soon as Rick walks in with a box of what Daryl presumes is dog stuff and a black and white collie at his heels, Carl’s off of the sofa and bounding over to it, completely disregarding his Dad in favor of the dog.

Rick doesn’t look too bothered by it, just puts the box down to the side of the hallways and un-clips Lacy’s lead before her and Carl get too tangled in it. 

“Come meet her Daryl!” Carl says, chocking off into laughter when the collie starts licking into his mouth, her tail thumping a rhythmic beat onto the floor. 

Daryl hesitates for just a while before standing up, seeing Rick walk into the kitchen with a water bowl and fill it from the tap on his way past. He walks over to Carl carefully, fearing the dog’s intuition just slightly as her head turns towards him. He’s heard stories of dogs before, how well they can anticipate a person’s motives, know their personality. While Daryl doesn’t fear an attack, he doesn’t want another reminder of all the reasons he shouldn’t be near people as good as the Grimes’.

There is no awake state for Dixon’s, not as far as Daryl’s concerned. Their life is too disfigured, malformed to belong in anything the light of day can touch.

His life tends to feel like a nightmare, unrelenting and unchangeable. Now it feels like he’s been allowed to dream again, and he doesn’t want pain to wake him from it and force him back where he belongs.

And although he knows the nightmare hasn’t ended, its clutch doesn’t restrict him as much as it used to.

“She’s a pretty girl.” Daryl says, hoping the dreamed up disguise he’s shrouded himself in will shield him from Lacy’s judgement.

She laps at his hand, rubbing the soft fur of her head against his palm until he starts to stroke her, eventually squatting down next to Carl to scratch at her neck. Her collar jingles against his hand, and Daryl wonders how she can look so happy under such constriction.

It’s an art he has yet to master and probably never will.

“She likes you.” Rick says, placing the water bowl down by the wall and moving over to stand beside them, his own hand ruffling Lacy’s hair as Daryl continues to. “Have you ever had a dog?”

“No.” Daryl says, almost absentminded in his answer, enjoying the feel of something so soft under his hand, something living and breathing that can’t berate him for existing alongside it. “There were a couple a strays by where we used to live, but I never got to feed ‘em or stroke ‘em or nothing.”

“Why not?” Carl says, his childish face betraying the most honest look of confusion Daryl’s ever seen. 

“My Dad told me not to waste the food on ‘em.” It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his dad, and even though it doesn’t feel as monumental as he thought it would the words fight him every step of the way.

“Couldn’t you have snuck it to them?” It’s almost nice to see how innocently caring Carl still is, how well established his morals still are. When Daryl was that age he could barely remember what care felt like.

“Didn’t wanna risk him finding out.”

“Why?”

“He would’ve skinned ‘em.” _Me as well_. But he doesn’t say it.

Carl makes a face, looking a mixture of shocked and sick rolled into one, and Daryl decided not to mention that he did try to feed one of them, and that Dad had skinned it. It would be even less wise to tell Carl that the dog hadn’t even been dead, had been whining and crying and Daryl had to sit there and listen to it and know it was all his fault. The dog died eventually, and Dad must’ve gotten bored at playing with something that didn’t struggle because he moved onto Daryl pretty quickly.

Daryl still has a section of knotted scar tissue on his calf, can still remember the pain of four deep lines sectioning out a rectangle, how blissful that had felt in comparison to the pure agony of having that section of skin pulled off. 

Once the infection set in he nearly lost his leg, because of course Dad didn’t clean the knife or the wound and Daryl had been eleven and too stupid to understand how bacteria worked yet. One of Dad’s friends had dragged him to the hospital once Dad passed out, passing him off to some nurse and making up some bullshit about a hunting accident.

Rick stops stoking the dog to look at his watch, the smile wiped of his face in favor of a deep set frown and skin that’s just a touch too pale. Daryl hopes he isn’t the one who put it there, 'cause no matter how often it happened, he hated being the cause of people’s sadness.

“Time for bed, Carl.” Rick sighs, the smile that returns to his face at Carl’s good natured whines not quite as believable as the one before had been.

“But Dad!” 

“No buts, you’ve already been up an extra hour.” Rick says, walking back over to the box and picking up Lacy’s bed.

“But Lacy’s only just got here!” Carl whines, and Daryl hopes the shine in his eyes isn’t the threat of tears, because Daryl can’t even deal with his own crying let along anyone else’s.

Rick sighs again, looking down at the bed in his hands for a minute before answering. “If you go to bed now, Lacy can sleep with you.” Rick pauses for Carl’s rambling affirmations, motioning both of them through to the hall towards his bedroom. Daryl follows them, not being sure of what else to do. He stops at the door of Carl’s bedroom while Rick gets the both of them settled. The room isn’t decorated yet, but Carl told Daryl that made him feel older. 

Daryl didn’t tell him he should cherish being young, that some people never get the chance to be. 

“You need to promise me that you’ll keep your door open, she needs to be able to get to her water.” Rick says, placing down Lacy’s bed with one hand and encouraging Carl to get into bed with the other. Lacy curls up straight away, and despite Carl being a little more restless Rick manages to get him settled soon enough as well.

It’s so routine, and it makes Daryl mourn the loss of the one he still can’t re-establish. 

“I will.” Carl says, dropping one of his hands over the side of the bed to run it through Lacy’s fur. Lacy’s ear prick up at the fuss, but other than that she stays totally still.

“Night Carl.” Rick says, kissing Carl’s forehead despite the boy’s protests. It reminds Daryl of the first time he ate pancakes, of the boy and his mother, the easy affection that flowed from both of them in waves, so normal that it became embarrassing. It makes his heart ache in his chest, the pain smuggling its way into his lungs and settling deep into the already prominent ache stemming from his cracked rib.

“Night Dad.” Carl replies, the words stretched round a yawn that betrays his earlier insistence about not being tired.

Daryl startles slightly when Rick turns, feeling a bit awkward at having stood there and watched something that was so obviously personal. But Rick smiles, and Carl looks up at him and smiles too. 

“Night Daryl.” Carl says, turning over slightly to be within easier reach of Lacy’s fur.

“Night Baby Goat.” Daryl jests, reveling in the small chuckle it brings forth from both father and son’s lips.

Daryl leans away from the door as Rick walks out of it, following the man back down towards the living room. Rick collapses down onto the couch, staring up at the TV set on whatever channel Carl had previously had it on but not looking particularly interested in it. Daryl sits down at the opposite end of the couch, trying not to look like he has no idea what to do in situations like this other than slot himself on his knees in between Rick’s split thighs and thank him the only way he knows how.

He isn’t stupid enough to think that would be a welcomed idea.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Rick says suddenly, pushing himself to be more upright on the coach and looking far too concerned over something Daryl regularly forgets about anyway.

Daryl points to the container of empty cookies. “Kid ended up forcing at least half of those on me.”

“That’s not exactly food.” Rick says, his smile retaining that small edge of sadness it had developed earlier.

“It’s something to eat.” Daryl argues, leaning back further into the couch and turning slightly to face Rick.

Rick laughs, it’s soft and quiet and considerate of the child sleeping in the other room but it’s still a laugh. “I guess it is.”

Daryl can’t quite believe how well Rick fits into the ‘father position’, how much he can care for other people all the while caring for his son and himself. Daryl makes a reminder to never have children of his own, because he could never fit into the role as well as Rick does, could never take on that much responsibility so easily when he can’t even be responsible for himself. It also minimizes the risk of ending up like his Dad, sets him up for the success of breaking the cycle even with his lackluster amount of ambition.

“You’re a good Dad.” Daryl says suddenly, and even though he means it the words practically fall out of his mouth and if he could have caught them he would.

“I try my best.” Rick says, humble to a fault with a lazy smile that brightens the room in absence of the long settled sun. “I try to be a good teacher as well.”

“You are a good teacher.” Daryl hurries to say, as reassuringly as he is able to.

Rick hums, and it could be in either agreement or disagreement but Daryl doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to tell. Rick himself knows it was disagreeing, knows his faults well enough to hear misplaced compliments when they are sent his way. As much as he tries to fix them, he still misses things, still messes things up, still looks at obviously man-made marks blossoming over pale skin and doesn’t say a word about them.

“Who keeps hurting you?” He questions, and it’s only the pure look of panic that spreads like wildfire over Daryl’s face that lets him know he said that out loud.

Daryl himself freezes like a deer in the headlights, shocked at the words that fall from Rick’s lips because they put all of this into words. It puts everything one step closer to the edge, shifts everything in favor of another landslide and Daryl can’t believe how much that brings to the forefront of his mind. The tranquility of the room feels shattered and it reminds Daryl of too many splintered shards falling from high places and the crack of a belt over already splintering skin.

“Daryl, breathe.” Rick says, shifting forward slightly on the couch but stopping when Daryl pulls back. “Please, Daryl, I’m sorry.”

“No one hurts me, no one does.” _Keep lying Daryl, just keep lying, the truth’s too risky, the truth’s too reckless._

“It’s okay.” Rick says, like he’s talking to a scared animal. “Hey, it’s okay.”

 _It’s not okay, it’s not okay._ Daryl thinks, because Rick being suspicious was one thing, and Rick knowing was another but saying it out load is something Daryl’s never had anyone do before and it’s making everything hard to keep track of, making the words fight to his lips, the long defeated truth fighting it’s way past the forts of lies set in place to stop it, scrabbling to join that which has already been established.

Daryl stands up, thinking that the crouched position may be what's causing such an inescapable pressure on his lungs, setting fire to all his oxygen and making him feel lightheaded. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder and Daryl flinches away from it, tries his best to move away from the hands that grab for him despite his lackluster reflexes. His motions feel like he’s underwater and his lungs burn like they believe they are and hands grab at his shoulders and Daryl doesn’t even have enough energy to fight them off.

“Breathe.” Someone says, and Daryl belatedly thinks they must be a damn idiot because can’t they see how hard he’s trying. “Don’t think about it, let your body do it. In. Out. In. Out.” 

A gentle movement of the hands on his shoulders mimics the instructions, rising for in and lowering for out. It encourages the movement of his own chest, his diaphragm synchronizing with the steady oscillation of it and his lungs slowly begin to feel like they’re sustaining themselves with air rather than water.

A good couple of minutes pass like that, and even when Daryl knows that Rick’s in front of him with his hands on his shoulders and concern etched onto his face he still doesn’t speak because he doesn’t know what to say.

Evidently, Rick realizes that, tries to speak for him.

“Are you okay?” Rick asks, and even though he wants to speak he doesn’t want to risk the words. “You don’t have to speak, just nod.” 

He nods, because he’s still shaky as anything and the oxygen debt is still singing in his blood but he’s getting there.

“Do you want to sit down?” 

He shakes his head, doesn’t want to risk cramping up his lungs again.

“Do you want a drink?”

Another shake, the fear of water falling back into his lungs and drowning him in his own head.

“Do you… Do you want to stay?” Rick asks, and he looks so sad and so tired and so unlike how he had a couple of hours ago and it’s all Daryl fault. He almost thinks he should go to Dad, get him to cut another section out of his skin, another reminder of where he belongs, who he is, what he deserves and doesn’t deserve to be.

He shakes his head, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see the look on Rick’s face, just knowing that he can’t stay here. Not while the heavy atmosphere of addressed but unspoken truth still permeates the air, threatens to grab a hold of Daryl’s chest again and squeeze until there’s no possibility of it ever falling from his lips.

“Okay.” Rick says, and it’s so carefully accepting, enough self-blame in the words that Daryl’s surprised they didn’t come out of his own mouth. “Can you stay for tonight though, sleep this off.”

It’s late and Carl’s asleep and Hershel’s family are still so unbalanced in their grief, the voice of reasoning says, returning to Daryl’s thoughts like it never left him choking on his own air a minute ago. It’s the look on Rick face that makes him agree, let’s Rick lead him to a room and sit him on the bed. He doesn’t even think that it’s probably Rick’s room, just lets his head fall down onto the pillow and watches Rick walk away.

“I’m sorry.” Rick says as he stands in the doorway, closing the door behind him with a noise that sounds too soft to feel so final.

Daryl’s eyes close, more to stave off tears then to succumb to the possibility of sleep. His lips feel as heavy as his limbs, but they still manage to fold around a silent _‘I’m sorry too.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. There's some more bad times coming up, and some very important chapters soon to follow, but I assure you all that we will get there and everyone will be happy!! :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the continued support on this! I appreciate every comment, kudos and bookmark so much!! :)
> 
> Warning - for slight suicidal thoughts, it's not really an attempt and in some ways it's not even the thought of it, but the associations that follow make it seem like it was an (in some ways) an attempt! :)
> 
> Overuse of metaphor like woah, by the way.

Daryl wakes with the sun, as he always does. 

Opening his eyes is disconcerting, not because he can’t remember where he is, but because it’s difficult to acclimatize himself to being there. There’s no damp on the roof, no broken springs threatening to re-pierce previously pierced skin. He still has his clothes on, but the blanket draped over him feels comforting rather than constricting and the gentle breeze infiltrating the room soothes the red flush left over from last night’s humiliation.

_'Who keeps hurting you?'_

He sits up in the bed, puts the palm of his hand against his forehead and leans against it until the pressure hurts. His head hurts anyway, regardless, and maybe it’s the residual concussion he may or may not have had from impacting Hershel’s bathroom floor, or maybe it’s the pressure that builds behind his eyes rather than before them and cripples his ability to think.

_'Who keeps hurting you?'_

How does he answer a question like that? How can he form words and speak them when they so often disintegrate on his lips. His tongue spits words like acid, his lips caress words like curses, and though the whispered mantra of soft, sympathetic noises people so often strategize these things away with fall over his ears like water, his own roll heavy through his eardrums and vibrate against them like thunder.

The first soft pattering’s of rain drizzle over his ears as Rick’s footsteps approach, a raindrop for each colliding thump on the floor. They hit the ground as the door opens, and Daryl can feel the sympathy rolling off blue eyes like the ever-changing flow of the ocean. The waves crash against him as Rick moves forward and even though the untimely splashes startle him with each hit, the waves are calm and no pain engulfs him as the water does.

“Are you alright.” Rick says, moving into the room tentatively, sitting down on the edge of the bed when Daryl makes no move to do anything towards prohibiting it.

Daryl nods, but Rick leans over regardless, a hand held out in front of him towards Daryl’s forehead. Daryl shifts back, just minutely as he gets closer, Rick halting his movements until Daryl himself does. It takes Daryl letting out the breath he was holding for Rick to press his hand to his forehead, using his thumb to brush a section of Daryl’s hair out of the way.

“You look flushed, but you don’t feel feverish.” He leans away again, brings his hand to his own forehead to gauge the temperature.

His blood feels like it’s on fire, but Daryl isn’t going to tell Rick that, not with the soothing laps of metaphorical water brushing against his calves and soothing his flushed skin.

“How are you feeling?” Rick asks, his voice as quiet as the forest Daryl used to love to roam. Noise disguised as silence and Daryl all but deaf to it. It’s lulling, rhythmic, like the movement of Rick’s sympathy, Rick’s kindness, flowing like holy water over frayed nerves and stitching them together like miracles.

“You already asked me that.” Daryl says, his head tilting to watch the rising sun through the slats of the blinds.

“No, that was general, this is a bit more specific.” Rick jests, a tentative foot placed in the doorway of humor and asking permission to proceed. Daryl latched that one shut overnight and isn’t sure he can find the key. “Is specific okay right now?”

Daryl shakes his head.

“Then are you feeling alright Daryl?” His voice flows so easily back into lulling, the calming motion of water, the steady riding of waves that makes you forget the prospect of drowning.

“I’m fine.”

He sort of wishes Rick would leave, because there’s something about the motion of this that’s dragging him into bad territory, pulling him further and further under until he’ll have to tell the truth because it’s the only thing that feels close to breathing. Daryl’s been suffocating for a long time, and the prospect of air filtering through his lungs after surviving without it for so long scares him.

It reminds him of what Maggie said. The _Living vs Surviving_ argument she’d bought up, such a short time ago to feel so far away.

Living means he has something to lose. That when Dad snaps one day, or Merle forgets his well-established but dangerously fragile perception of love, or when Daryl himself loses the careful balance he has on the tightrope twining it’s way around his neck, there will be a distinction, a difference. Living and dying, that’s polar opposites, it’s leap and bounds, it’s miles of territory with thousands of others and your journey and choices affect them as much as it does you. Living makes death so sad. The prospect of living, the process of living, it throws death into such a steep contrast. Experiencing someone’s life reminds others of their mortality. 

Surviving means the danger’s already on the horizon. There’s no focus on anything but staying alive, no prospect of death for anyone except those in line of sight and Daryl doesn’t mind being left out in the open so long as everyone else can hide. No casualties at all, because it’s not dying it’s just failing.

Daryl’s always been good at failing.

And Death only saddens people when the quality of living outweighed the benefits of ceasing to.

“Yesterday you said that you didn’t want to stay.” Rick says, the look in his eyes changing, reminding Daryl less of the ocean and more of the steady movement of tears running over cheeks like streams. “Hershel said you can stay there if you still want to go.”

“What about his daughter?” Daryl asks, disregarding his thoughts and the inappropriate chain they’re running on. 

“She’s mourning, but she’ll be okay.” Rick answers, a few curls falling back onto his forehead even after he blows it out of his face. “Do you want to take a shower, before I drop you off?”

Daryl nods. “If you don’t mind.”

Rick throws him a look that sounds like _‘Of course I don’t’_ , walking over to the dresser in the corner of the room and pulling out a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. That’s about the moment Daryl realizes that this is Rick’s room. It makes him feel like a piece of shit, but when does he ever feel like anything but?

Leading him out of the bedroom, and through to the shower, Rick hands him the clothes before he closes the door.

“Take as long as you want.” Rick says. “But bear in mind that Carl and I are making waffles.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t cook.” Daryl says, accepting the pile of clothes and moving them towards the counter.

Rick smiles just a little bit indulgently, looking back towards the kitchen as he does so. At least that lets Daryl know the smile isn’t aimed at him. “We have a waffle maker.”

“I’m not really that hungr-”

“Don’t.” Rick’s smile doesn’t quite drop, so much as it slowly slides to a position more resembling of a frown. “It’s fine that you want to go, that’s perfectly fine. But you’re having something to eat before you do.”

Daryl takes that as the order it is, shutting the door once he’s given his affirmation and letting his forehead collide with the wall a little too harshly to be anything other than intentional. He does it again, and again, and again, until the peaceful waters left behind by Rick Grimes are as chaotic and dangerous as they deserve to be. He drags himself away from the wall, stumbles his way to the shower and turns on the water, putting it as cold as it will go. He doesn’t want to get used to something so inconsistent.

He strips off his clothes, his shirt sticking slightly to the half healed scabs on his back and ripping them off as it goes. He steps into the water before the blood can reach the white tiles on the floor, letting it be washed away by the water like it was never even there.

_Like you were never even here._

The cold water feels like shards of ice but it burns into the cuts on his back, an imaginary flame catching enough to burn away all that had tried to heal but not to leave them as anything but open and raw.

He tilts his head back, originally intending to dampen his hair but pushing back further until his entire face rests under the spray. Daryl opens his mouth, tries to breathe through the water, his balance tilting slightly towards the dangerous side of his tightrope. 

Daryl leans down, takes the plug from the side of the bath and blocks the drain with it, watching the steady rise of the water as it travels up his legs. He sits down once it’s halfway full and waits, waits until he can feel the gentle lapping of it trying to sooth the lashes on his back with more pain. He reaches up and turns the shower off, bringing his knees up to his chest and flexing his back, letting the water wash into the wounds and pain them until the nerves feel numb.

It’s easy enough to lean back, stretch out his body and feel the ceramic edge of the bath dig into the base of his skull, a far cry from the pillow he woke up on this morning but seeming much more suited to the level of comfort he’s used to. His hands grip the edge of the bath, curling around them until he can slide his head down under the water and hold himself there.

It takes a while for his lungs to start protesting, but Daryl holds himself under until they stop. Until the steady beat of his heart rings in his ears like silence in a forest, like silence underwater. His hands curl tighter around the edges, fighting the urge to relax, to give in, wanting to cherish the blissful feeling of being close enough to fall either way. The tightrope tightens round his neck, and it’s his and this is him. He’s in control and he _needs_ it.

_‘There’s no shame in needing something, Daryl.’_

The far off sound of noise drifts into the tranquility, and Daryl’s straining limbs fight to push himself further into the water, his back scraping against the bottom of the bath until pain flares and he chokes around water. He comes up coughing, a hand over his mouth that seeps water as it falls from his lips and his eyes blink away droplets that fall onto his tongue and taste like tears.

“Daryl!” Carl shouts through the door, Daryl’s limbs shaking like they’re trying to prevent him getting out of the bath, getting away from what he just did. “Breakfast’s ready.”

_‘You going all Uncle Bill on me?’_

No, no he wasn’t, he isn’t. It wasn’t like that, it was just calming and careful and painful and painless. It wasn’t like Bill, it wasn’t like Mom, he’s still here, he’s still breathing – 

But his lungs had burned, like fire climbing up the gaps in his rib-cage and encompassing them in flames. The necessity of breathing had settled, wafting away like smoke in the breeze, oxygen used up and tasting like ashes.

_What’s the difference between inhaling smoke and inhaling water?_

_There isn’t one._ Daryl thinks, pulling on the clothes Rick gave him and feeling like another slip’s gonna drag him down, down, down until he’s buried and choking on ashes or submerged and breathing in water.

Daryl walks out of the bathroom, his towel dried hair still dripping down his neck into the borrowed black top he’s wearing. He makes his way to the kitchen, rounding the corner to see Carl and Rick sat down on the breakfast bar waiting for him to get his sorry ass out here. In a surge of melancholy Daryl thinks that they might have been waiting a very long time, that the third plate of waffles that sits so easily on the bar beside their own but implies so many things Daryl doesn’t have the peace of mind to contemplate, might’ve been left there a very long time too.

“Take a seat, Daryl.” Rick says with a smile that’s slightly distorted by the mouthful of waffle he shoves in it.

Carl pulls the third plate from the middle over to his side of the bar, looking around at Daryl with a smile. “Sit by me though, I made them so I choose where everyone sits.”

Daryl does as he’s told, moving over to the stool and feeling like he’s still weighed down by water. He starts eating, trying his best to copy the way everyone else used the cutlery so neatly.

“You still want to leave?” Rick says, putting his plate to the side and leaning forward onto his crossed arms. “You’re very welcome to stay.”

There’s a moment of ‘no’ that flashes past Daryl’s eyes, the part that looks at Rick and Carl and the damn dog he never (always) wanted, and sees family, sees the potential for something he long thought dead and buried. Most of his family still walks, but they're disjointed, unfeeling, dead in all but their stubborn heart still beating molasses round their bloodstream like poison. 

“Nah, I’ll go.” He says, _because it’s easier this way Daryl, it really, really is. You feel that tug in your head that makes you want to disagree? That’s your living right there, that’s living, breathing hurt and there’s nothing more real than pain._

Daryl doesn’t want any more pain.

“You’re leaving!” Carl says, pushing aside his own plate without even finishing and turning towards Daryl. Lacy, who’s sitting at his feet, perks her head up at the noise. “You just got here.”

“I gotta go home sooner or later, kid.” Daryl replies, pushing his own food around the plate and trying not to make eye contact.

“No.” Rick says, leaning over and picking up the plates. “Hershel said you can stay at his, you don’t have to go anywhere.”

“Why stay there when you can stay here!” Carl whines, ignoring the look Rick send him and tugging Daryl’s arm until he looks at him. “I haven’t shown you that a kid’s a baby goat yet.”

Daryl entire frame just drops, his shoulders hunching and his rib-cage practically crippling itself to accommodate the angle of his back. The kid looks near tears, and Daryl knows he should tell him he ain’t worth crying over but can’t bring himself to.

“Sorry, Baby Goat.” Daryl decides on, a little bit of indifference with a little bit of kindness. 

Carl gets up out of his seat, stalks his way out of the room and Daryl recons the slam that follows must be the kids door. Lacy follows slowly, her paw clicking every time her nails hit the floor.

“Sorry about that.” Rick says, turning back to the sink and dropping the plates into them.

“Ain’t his fault.” Just mine. 

“You know, you really don’t have to go.” Rick’s so earnest, turning round and leaning both his arms against the sink, looking like he’s persistently throwing a lifeline to someone who doesn’t want to catch it. Maybe that’s right, what the hell does Daryl know anymore?

“Yeah, I do.” Daryl drawls, wishing these people weren’t making it so damn difficult to get out of their way.

“If it’s about what I said-”

“Take Lacy on a walk with me.” Carl interrupts, standing in the doorway with Lacy by his side, holding her leash tightly gripped in his trembling hands.

“Carl-” Rick starts.

“No!” Carl protest, pulling Lacy forward to drag at Daryl’s arm. It pulls at the lashes, and Daryl feels bad about bleeding into Rick’s shirt. “He has time!”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind going.” Daryl says, getting off of his stool before Rick can open his mouth again and the two of them can start an argument.

“Just round the block!” Rick calls to them as Carl drags him to the door, opening it and walking him and Lacy down the stairs.

It’s a lovely day when they finally get outside, the sun finding its way through the clouds and illuminating the puddles on the street like rainbows. There’s a chill to the air, and it clings to Daryl’s frame, makes him shiver and find his own warmth when the sun disappears and fails to grace him with its own. The blood on his back feels tangy, and Daryl’s glad the shirt he’s wearing is dark enough to disguise it.

Carl turns to face him.

“My parents are getting a divorce.” He says, as serious as Daryl’s ever seen him.

“I know kid.” Daryl says, wonders if your parents splitting up when they’re both alive is better than one of them dying and leaving the other behind. “That sucks.”

“Why do people even get divorced?” Carl asks, moving forward slightly when Lacy want’s to sniff a different patch. 

“’Cause they’re unhappy.” Daryl guesses, not really having much of an idea about himself.

“I don’t want them to split up.” He doesn’t look at Daryl, just looks down to the ground and lets Lacy pull him past any obstacles.

Daryl continues walking beside him and even though he likes Carl he hopes that’s the last of any questions. It’s not like he answered any of the first ones very well and Daryl isn't fool enough to think he could've done any better.

“Did your parents split up?” Carl asks, pulling Daryl’s attention to him and leaving his damn hopes behind.

“Sort of.” Carl doesn’t say anything, so Daryl carries on. “My Mom died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m not.” _Not really._

They lapse into silence again and Daryl thinks it must have something to do with processing time or some shit like that, because Carl looks like he’s trying pretty hard to reason out what Daryl’s saying.

“Is it Dad’s fault?” He says, a little while later, once they’ve looped round the apartment building and are walking back toward the entrance.

Daryl pulls him to a stop, a hand on his shoulder turning Carl to face him. “Why do you think that?” 

“Well Mum left him, and now you’re leaving.” Carl says, like it’s the most straightforward thing in the world to blame his father for other people’s fuck ups.

“Your Dad didn’t do nothing.” Daryl says, letting go of Carl’s shoulder and turning away from him when he doesn’t do it himself. “It’s my fault.”

“Why’s that?” 

“There doesn’t have to be a reason it’s my fault, kid.” Daryl says, looking down at him from the corner of his eye. “It just is.”

Rick’s ready to go by the time they get back, handing Daryl a bag with his other clothes in and telling him to keep the ones he’s got on when Daryl goes to change. He hands Carl his jacket, stops him from un-clipping Lacy’s lead and piles them all downstairs and into the car.

Carl and Lacy sit in the back, Daryl in the passenger seat with Rick driving. It reminds Daryl of yesterday, but no easy conversation fills the silence and the atmosphere feels too heavy for Daryl to support it on his own.

It doesn’t take long to get to the farm, and when they pull up Maggie and Hershel are waiting on the porch. Daryl feels bad about the fan fair, feels bad about bothering to come here in the first place when he should’ve just dealt with it all on his own.

People were difficult enough when he didn’t crave their company.

Rick unbuckles his seat belt, steps out of the car and walks up to the two of them, motioning back to the car every once in a while. Daryl takes a breath, contemplates how much more difficult breathing in air feels now that he’s tried breathing in water and un-clips his own seat belt.

“Bye Daryl.” Carl says, whisper quiet and pressed as far as he can go into the back seat.

Daryl looks at him in the wing mirror, but this time he can’t see a smile.

“Bye Baby Goat.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you (once again) to everyone who has commented, kudosed and bookmarked this story! You're all the best :)
> 
> I reckon this story is going to have about 40 chapters, it's about 83000 words right now and I've just finished writing chapter 27, so hopefully you'll all enjoy this right up until it ends! :)
> 
> I'm sorry to anyone who doesn't like the chapters with Maggie and Daryl, but the things discussed in this are very important to Daryl's acceptance of what's happened to him and paves the way for accepting help. The things Daryl admits to (while minimal at this point) are very important in the up-coming chapters, so I hope you enjoy it anyway!.

It doesn’t take long for Rick to drive away, but Daryl stands on the porch for a long time, waiting until the black of the car is indistinguishable from the vague multi-colored blend of the horizon.

Maggie grabs onto his arm, pulling him into the house. Daryl moves numbly, following her regardless of where she's taking him, let's her lead him up the stairs and across the hallway into a room he down the hall from the bathroom where he passed out. It’s only when Daryl’s faced with pastel blue walls and photos of people posing in various ways around smiling renditions of Maggie that he realizes where he is. 

It feels a little bit odd to be in Maggie bedroom. Not because she’s a girl or anything like that, more because it reminds Daryl of all the times he wanted to stay at other people’s houses. When he’d be dragged home by an unsuspecting kid who didn’t know how un-deserving of friendship the entire world had decided Daryl was and shown him into a room that had color, that had toys, that had love etched into every brushstroke and kindness woven into every seam.

Merle didn’t like him having friends anyway, so it was probably a good thing he freaked out and never stayed.

_Never got asked again either because who wants to be friends with a frea-_

Maggie’s room’s a lot like that, and it kind of makes Daryl miss the barren, just moved in emptiness of Rick’s apartment.

“What happened?” Maggie asks, her eyes still the slightest bit too red but her face set in grim determination.

“Mags-” Daryl starts, because seriously her brother in law just died this is not the time to be giving a fuck about Daryl Dixon.

“No, don’t say it.” Maggie says, standing up from where she’d sat herself on her bed to drag Daryl down onto it too. “I’m all cried out. I’ve had my chat, I’ve had concern thrown at me like confetti, now it’s your turn.”

“I don’t need your damn concern.” Daryl argues, rubbing a hand over his eyes and pushing some of the hair out of them.

“Concern’s part of being friends, Daryl.” Maggie deadpans, looking the level of done with Daryl that he’d always expected her to.

But she called him a friend. Someone actually labelled him as their friend and that’s a bit disconcerting to Daryl because he’s never had a friend. Merle never wanted him to have one and Daryl couldn’t have found one on his own anyway. The closest thing he had to a friend before all this was Jimmy, and that’s a lot sadder then Daryl ever realized it was.

The term feels constricting, because how does he even classify as a friend? How does he do that without fucking it up?

“Why does me calling you that make you look so sad?” Maggie asks, shifting further onto the bed and crossing her legs.

Daryl shrugs, because he really doesn’t know. He should feel happy about it, but it just feels hollow, the entirety of him just feels hollow. Maybe the fire he thought about earlier was real, maybe it spread like wildfire through him, caught on everything he ever could've been and all that’s left is ashes.

Ashes like Mom and that him and Merle said they’d never be and maybe that’s why Maggie’s saying he’s her friend, because this isn’t even real and Daryl’s just dreaming up foolish things he can never imagine enough to want in the daytime.

“Do you want to go home?” Maggie asks, looking at him with a sympathy that isn’t unlike Rick's, but doesn’t quite have the same ebb and pull as his does, doesn’t quite tempt Daryl’s tongue into telling the truth the same way.

“No.” Daryl says, because everything in him screams it at him.

“Do you want to stay here?”

“No.” Not like this, not like he is now. Maybe one day, if he makes it that far, when he’s better and not as fucked up and can look Maggie in the eyes and tell her she’s a friend too.

Maggie stares at him for a minute, stares at him staring at the wall. “Where do you wanna go Daryl?” 

“I don’t know.” Daryl breathes out, and it’s probably the most truthful thing he’s ever said to her.

He wants to take it back as soon as he’s said it, because if he can say one truthful thing then what’s to stop him saying the others. It feels like betrayal, more than anything, because how many nights had Merle studiously sat there and cleaned the lashes on his own back because Daryl was too young to know what he was doing and still been able to tell Daryl a stupid lie about a damn fight. It didn’t matter that Daryl heard the shouting, didn’t matter that on more occasions then not he saw the blood staining Dad’s belt buckle the next day, because if Merle could lie it was all alright.

He could venture off into his own head, back when his thoughts were innocent enough to create anything worth seeing, and imagine that they didn’t hit each other, that Mommy didn’t cry into her wine bottles and throw them at Daryl when she caught him staring, that Merle didn’t get drunk that one time and tell him how much of a burden he was.

But most of all, he could pretend they weren’t fraying apart at the seams, that Daddy didn’t have that far off look in his eyes whenever he looked at Uncle Bill’s shotgun. That Merle didn’t take just a little too much of every drug he tried, that Mommy didn’t press her cigarette into her skin and smile when it burned.

That he never looked at the fast flowing water of the river and wonder if he’d put up much of a fight against the tide.

Daryl shifts from his place on the bed, walking backwards and forwards across the room and absentmindedly shaking his hands out in front of him, trying his best to just stop thinking and calm down and act like a normal person because Maggie just said he’s her friend and he doesn’t want her to take that back.

“Daryl?” Maggie says, standing up to walk beside him, reaching out a hand to stop him once he gets back to the wall running parallel to the bed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Daryl brushes her off, turns to face the wall and places both his hands against it, tries to stretch out his ribs without jostling the cracked one. He feels Maggie place a feather light hand against his back, rubbing in circles slightly and making Daryl feel like a little kid who actually knew what touches of affection felt like.

“Are you sure.” Maggie says.

“Sure about what?” Daryl grumbles, his head tilting slightly to watch her out of the corner of his eye.

“That you’re fine.” Maggie drawls her way through ‘fine’, makes it sound like fan, but Daryl can’t judge her for being southern. “Cause right now I’m not sure you know what fine feels like.”

Daryl’s head collides with the wall again, just the once this time, to reduce the risk of any more misplaced ‘concern’. He’s not necessarily doing it to hurt himself, it’s more centered them that, more grounding. And if there is a link between pain and feeling like he’s balanced, feeling like the tightrope isn’t swinging too far from his reach, then Daryl’s gonna welcome the next beating with open arms and pray for salvation in savagery.

“I know what fine is.” 

“Do you know what it feels like?” God, how does she have another question for everyone he answers?

“Feels like _living_.” He spits, pushing himself off of the wall and stalking back over to the bed, sitting down in front of it rather than on it and looking up at her with angered impatience. “That what you want me to say?”

“Being fine isn’t living Daryl.” Maggie says, calm like her father and twice as understanding. “Living’s being happy.”

Daryl pulls his knees in towards him, rest each elbow on top of them so his arms hang between the gap in his legs. He feels so stranded, here, now. Unknowing of the questions and even more unknowing of the answers, feeling like he’s five years old again and someone just asked him about ‘Christmas’, expectation flung over their faces like misplaced glass shards. He’s in a boat without a paddle, stranded on a still segment of water just to the left of Rick Grimes and a little too far South of Maggie Greene. 

He can’t reach them, their currents flow in opposing directions, but Daryl would defeat the laws of physics if only so he could understand them.

He’s not sure exactly which he wants to understand, the ebb of Rick Grimes or the flow of Maggie Greene, the opposing forces that keep Daryl so separate from it all or the knowledge of how to get closer.

“I think of it like a seesaw.” Maggie says suddenly, nudging him slightly with her elbow. “Happiness, sadness, the line. It’s a balancing act.”

Her balancing act seems a lot nicer then Daryl’s does and he supposes she must not have quite as much to lose if she topples off either end.

“What do you see?” She asks, turning to face him properly, like she thinks the look on his face will tell her more than his words ever will. Daryl brings his thumb up to his mouth, bites along the nail to help him think.

“A tightrope.” _And sometimes a noose._

“Repercussions.” Maggie says, nodding her head like that makes sense and Daryl must look like an open book because she spots his confusion easily. “You think of repercussions, placed yourself at a height thinking you’re going to fall. Balance is important to you, because if you don’t keep it you fall and that means getting hurt.”

Daryl looks at her, shocked because he didn’t even say anything and she still knows. It sounds like understanding even though he knows it isn’t and his heart damn near leaps at the feeling of companionship in a place so long left isolated.

“I want to study psychology.” She said, as if in explanation, and though it does shine light on it she really hadn’t needed to.

“You’ll be good at it.” It’s a quiet compliment, but Maggie smiles like she heard it loud and clear.

The lapse into silence for a while, the open window letting in the noise of crickets outside, the breeze blowing through the slats and whistling tunes that Daryl can barely hear. Maggie’s TV is on, but not playing anything and if Daryl listens hard enough he thinks he can make out the barely there sound of static. The soft sound of singing blows in with the breeze, accompaniment to the whistling and Daryl belatedly think that Maggie’s sister has a damn good voice. 

The silence isn’t quite as quiet as Daryl normally likes, but it feels a little bit more alive.

“You still haven’t told me what happened.” Maggie ventures, ever so gently, tentatively, like she’s poking at a lion she’s just barely managed to tame.

“It wasn’t -” Daryl starts, stops again because that doesn’t seem like the right way to put it. “Nothing happened, I just…”

“Freaked?” Maggie guesses, and like all the times Daryl’s known her do it she’s spot on the mark again.

“You know, Daddy only told me about his Dad three years ago.” Maggie says suddenly, and even though Daryl’s heard it before he has a feeling it’ll be different. “And even though he said it was because I was young, it was really because he didn’t want to say it. I still don’t know everything and I never need to. I know enough to understand, I know enough to avoid triggers, I know enough to help.”

It’s all said pointedly, and she’s looking directly at him, but Daryl still feels calm, doesn’t see a slim finger rising towards him ready to appoint the blame.

“You never need to tell them everything, there can be things you never say, things no one ever knows.” Daryl makes eye contact with her and doesn’t even have to look away. “But it’ll stay with you, and if you want to be with someone, to stop freaking out and running away, they have to know what scares you. The have to understand enough to avoid it or help, depending on what you need.”

Daryl does break eye contact then, because talking about the things he ‘needs’ has always made him uncomfortable, the ways he gets them even more so and he thinks, even as he listens to her and takes it in, that those stories will be some of the things he never tells her.

“I don’t know what’s happened.” She says, like she’s admitting to it, rather than just pointing it out. “But after years of looking at Daddy, the transition from not understanding to knowing, I’ve gotten better at working things out. I’ll never know anything more than that unless you want to tell me and that’s _fine_. I know enough to help and to avoid hurt and that’s all anyone ever needs to know.”

She catches his eyes again with her own, and Daryl tries his best to meet them despite the redness she must see. She called him her friend, earlier on today and she’s taken the time out of her own mourning to comfort him over something ultimately less important. The eye contact isn’t strained, because he’s almost sure that he could call her a friend back and still not look away.

“What do you think’s gonna happen if you tell someone.” It could be said generally, but Daryl knows she means Rick.

He pulls his lip into his mouth and bites it, rolling it under his teeth as he thinks. “It’ll be different.”

“It will be different.” She agrees, nodding her head. “It’ll also be better.”

Daryl licks at the section of his lip he’s just bitten in to, raising his shoulders in a shrug but not completely lowering them. “Not exactly nice stories."

“You never have to tell them. Stories are specific Daryl. You can be as vague as you want.” She says it like a secret and that’s probably what makes Daryl spill one of his own.

“My Dad hits me.” Daryl says, so softly it’s almost like a whisper.

He wants to keep it contained, to keep it controlled, but that doesn’t mean it has to remain so confined. It isn’t freeing to tell her, it feels exactly the same and for some reason that lack of change is a result of the biggest thing he’s ever done. It feels so calming to retain the balance, to poke himself damn near off the tightrope but still remain so stable. The beating of his heart remains calm, his lungs still function as they should and the world hasn’t fallen and left him stranded.

It’s isn’t freeing and it feels a little bit too much like falling, but it’s out there and it’s said and there’s something about it being exactly the same that makes it different.

“I know, sweetie.”

Her fingers just about brush his back and it reminds him of Joe and so many other people who held him down and took what they wanted regardless of what he did, sat there and stared at things he never wanted anyone to see. But then they settle and stay there, brushing against clothed covered lashes like she knows they’re there, like she knows they hurt.  
It feels like comfort, feels like kindness and Daryl doesn’t even mind when her grip gets a bit tighter and his back does start to hurt, because it’s a good kind of pain.

_Sorry for slipping Merle._

He closes his eyes, fights back the tears that try to burn their way free, lets them sting as much as they want to because he deserves it.

Daryl waits until midnight to leave, pushes his bike a mile down the road so they don’t hear it start up. He drives home. Even though it feels as wrong as it feels right and the uncertainty makes him doubt everything he's already decided.

The black of the sky looks endless, has depth even though Daryl can’t really see it, and Daryl’s falling, falling, falling. Like ashes and raindrops and the misunderstanding of each.

He feels burnt up, bloated out and maybe this was all a warning. That Merle and Dad are already ashes and Rick and Maggie flow through his fingertips like water. One too fine to cling to and the other too inconsistent to grasp. The raindrops fall like warnings, the ashes scatter like signs and even now, as laid out and telling as Daryl’s ever seen them he still doesn’t have a hope of reading them.

It’s the impacts rather than the implications, that ring out in Morse code as they hit the ground and tell him what to do.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some lovely comments on this recently and I would like to thank everyone (once again) for every single kudos, comment and bookmark given! You all keep me going!
> 
> This chapter is primarily to catch up with Rick and get him up to date for the upcoming chapters, there is more Carl, more Carol and a Will Dixon moment at the end which is completely separate from the rest of the chapter but I added it in to prepare for the next (it's a bit of a weird timeline though since this is the morning and the next chapter is Daryl's point of view from the night before!) Thank you!
> 
> Bonus points for guessing the nod to Season 5 (Terminus in particular) :)

Carl was subdued all weekend. Walking round the apartment, staring at his socks rather than where he’s going and not particularly caring when he walks into things because of it. Lacy adopts his mood, as she usually does, following behind him with her tail curled between her legs, head hung low to the floor in mimicry of Carl’s reluctance to look anywhere else. 

It’s the middle of Sunday before Carl comes up to him, sits himself down on the couch by Rick and looks more at him then the TV. 

“Daryl said you and Mom are getting a divorce because you’re unhappy.” He says. 

Rick knew this conversation was going to happen sooner or later, but he hadn’t exactly expected it to start that way. As a matter of fact he’s expected it a long time ago, back when the temper tantrums were rampant and the tears were a common addition to conversation. It’d been a bad time, one of the worst Rick can remember going through with Carl and even though he couldn’t blame him for any of it, he’d been expecting this to come about back then and make everything a whole lot worse than it already had been.

Rick rubs at his stubble, wonders if it was inevitable for Daryl Dixon’s troubles to get lodged in his head and adopted as his own or if Rick sped it along by caring too much. His son just asked him a question about his imminent divorce and he can’t even think past the first word of the sentence to try and answer it. Daryl’s problems are just so much more profound, the types of problems that need a solution but never get one. Rick wonders if Carl would ask questions about Daryl, if he knew, if that would outweigh this in his mind as well.

“When did Daryl say that?” He asks, propping his arm up onto the couch and resting his temple against his fist.

“On our walk.” Carl answers, fiddling with one of the tassels on the pillows, wrapping his arms around it and pulling it into his stomach. “We talked a bit.”

“Do you want to talk about it now?” Rick asks, trying to think back to when Shane’s parent’s split up for some reference emotions to go on. “The Divorce.”

“No, I think I get it.” Carl pulls the pillow towards himself tighter. “It sucks, but I don’t want you two to be unhappy.”

Rick smiles slightly, sending a mental thank you to Daryl and reminding himself to thank him in person next time he sees him.( _If you see him_ ) He’s still berating himself over what happened, about being stupid enough to push Daryl when he wasn’t ready to move, but the fact that he could still reassure his son meant a lot, and bought life back to the small, persistent feeling of hope that clings to him like a vine, winding itself into the section of his thoughts that tell him he hasn’t fucked up too much.

“It’s just that,” Carl starts, looking away from him. “I asked if it was your fault, that you and Mom split up and that he was leaving.”

“That’s alright-”

“I didn’t mean it, I just didn’t understand!” Carl says, brushing away Rick’s reassurance without concern for being reassured. “I still don’t really understand it.”

“Your Mother and I just-”

“No!” Carl says, putting the pillow back onto the couch and leaning forward over his crossed legs. “I know that! I just don’t understand why people keep leaving. Why you left the house and Daryl left here and-”

“Carl.” Rick says, halting his rant before it gets out of hand, before he’s dissolved into angry fits of tears and shouted words at the unfairness of it all. Rick can relate, because there’s nothing worse than not understanding something and Rick knows that feeling well. “First things first, I left because it makes things easier.”

“How does that make anything easier?” Carl interrupts, the tantrum moving closer to the horizon, something Rick cannot blame him for but can deflect before it gets close enough to the surface to do damage.

“Let me speak.” Rick says, gently, calmly, leaning forward himself and trying to channel all the fatherly skill he has. 

_‘You’re a good dad.’_

“Me leaving, that establishes the distance.” Rick says. “You know we wouldn’t have stayed together, this can help all of us get used to that. It won’t get any worse than this.”

Carl nods, leaning back slightly towards the armrest, absentmindedly running his fingers through Lacy’s coat when she nudges her head onto his lap. She sits there and pants, accepts the rubs and the attention as she has since Carl was small and Rick thanks his lucky stars for a dog who’s so adept at sensing stress and putting it at ease.

“What about Daryl?” 

It’s a good question, what about Daryl? How does he go about answering a question he’s yet to decipher himself? How does he give Carl a half decent answer when he hasn’t even figured out how best to ask the question to himself?

“I don’t know Carl.” He says, sticking with honesty because his lies have always been rusty at best and lying to Carl when he took the time to come sit down and speak with him feels a bit redundant. “Daryl’s difficult to understand. It was my fault that he left though, you were right about that.”

“No it wasn’t!” Carl protests, jostling Lacy’s head slightly as he moves his arms away from her. “Daryl said it wasn’t.”

“He was probably being polite, he probably wanted to-”

“But he said it was his fault.” Carl says, blue eyes looking so confused and Rick thinks they must be the mirror image of his own, like the ocean reflecting the sky, because that’s how he feels. “What did he do wrong?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong Carl.”

“Then whose fault was it.” Carl says, his bottom lip starting to quiver slightly, his hands re-wrapping themselves around Lacy’s head and holding on tight. “Was it something I did?”

“No Carl, I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.” Apart from mine but we’ve been there once before. “I think Daryl just… wants to do things on his own.”

“He can’t do everything on his own.” Carl says, dead serious now the conversation’s turned. “Everyone needs someone.”

Rick hums in agreement, wondering when Carl started growing up. He hopes it isn’t something that’s sprung up early, because of the divorce. He would rather Carl was finding his way to maturity on his own, without outside input. Rick knows that’s probably a bit too much to hope for, that the divorce will have a bigger impact on Carl then he can imagine, but the lack of crying, the lack of shouting reminds him that Carl can deal with things now, that he’s growing up and getting smarter and learning to understand.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Carl’s leaned further in towards him, his shoulder pressed into Rick’s side and Rick reminds himself that no matter how old Carl’s getting, there’s still some kid time left. He wraps an arm around Carl’s shoulders, shifting him in further and pre-mourning the days where Carl won’t accept contact like this anymore, already imagining the long years spent waiting for a time where it will establish itself again.

“I hope so.” Rick says, not definite because it isn’t a definite possibility, but not disregarding because neither is it impossible.

“Well he has to.” Carl says, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning slightly. “I spent the whole of lunch printing out the Wikipedia page on Baby Goats.”

Rick laughs and it makes his stomach hurt in ways that have nothing to do with guilt.

The humour fades once Lori comes to pick Carl and Lacy up, all of Rick’s light-hearted cheer being dragged out the door, or consumed by the newly established loneliness of the apartment. He sits himself back on the couch, but it isn’t the same without a dog at his heel and his son pressed up against his side, the easy conversation of someone they’ve all come to care for. Rick falls asleep on the couch to thoughts of family, and how mismatched and uneven it can be.

The next day shines light on the apartment and damn near blinds Rick as he’s trying to get up, the light reflecting off the whitewashed walls directly into Rick’s sleep laded eyes. He sits up, puts himself in the shadow’s made by one of the blinds and let’s his eyes adjust to the brightness normally.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch a second time, and though he’d been happy to let Daryl take his bed the day before last (because he’d looked about ready to collapse and Rick would’ve pulled a cloud out of the damn sky for him to sleep on if it would’ve alleviated his guilt) the couch wasn’t doing any favors to his joints.

Showering, shaving and everything else was routine in the morning, enough necessity for Rick to practically blank out, let his mind wander as his body does what it knows to do.

As is always the case recently, his mind wanders back to Daryl. Daryl, and Carl’s conversation with him.

_‘Daryl said it was his fault.’_

It tugs at Rick, because even though he himself has been known to falsely blame himself about things he had no control over, all Daryl did was panic. He did nothing that Rick hadn’t either prompted or directly asked him to do, barely touched anything in Rick’s house other then things he got for Carl, stayed quiet and contained until the moment Rick dragged everything out of whatever padlocked box Daryl had placed it all in and practically threw him into a panic attack.

Everything in this pointed to Rick, spelled out that it was his fault.

But Daryl still said it wasn’t, still placed the blame on himself.

Rick starts to wonder if Daryl left because he really was annoyed at Rick, or because he thought he’d done something wrong.

Running a hand down his face, Rick grabs a piece of toast and makes his way down to the car, eats in the lift so he’s ready to drive as soon as he gets down there. He chucks his satchel in the back, sits himself in the driver’s seat and tries not to worry too much, reminds himself that yes, Daryl’s already bruised, but he went back to Hershel’s and he’ll be in school today and there won’t be any more.

Carol’s sitting on the bench outside the school when he pulls up, and he feels uncertain enough about everything to risk wasting her time again once he gets out of the car. The school grounds are practically empty, both of them arriving too early to avoid taking on the rush of students that crowds every hallway the closer it gets to the bell.

“Hey Carol.” Rick sits down beside her on the bench as he says it, watching her shift her position to be more open for company and thinks this is how she gets so many people to talk to her.

“What’s wrong Rick?” Carol says. “Is it Daryl?”

Rick startles, looking towards her as he leans his upper half away. “I never told you-”

“No, you didn’t.” Carol says with a smile, easing Rick back into the conversation as well as her own space. “It was a girl, Maggie, in my psychology class. She was worried about a boy, called Daryl, was worried he was being hurt.”

Rick sighs, rolling his wrist against his forehead slightly and brushing away the curl that keeps falling there. “You put two and two together.”

“I put two and two together.” Carol agrees, looking out over the playground and just breathing for a second before speaking again. “He reminds me of how I used to be.” Her mouth twists down into a frown ever so slightly. “At least from what I’ve heard.”

Rick tilts his head, questioning her without actually proposing the question. Carol looks back at him when he fails to speak, takes his actions as what they are.

“Not noticing that people care, not being able to accept it.” She says, nodding her head slightly. “I used to be like that.”

“How’d you get out of it?”

“Not by myself. And that’s the hard part, people like the old me, people like him,” She stops, shakes her head, rubs her hands together like they feel cold despite her gloves. “We don’t want help, but we need it most.”

Rick knows that, as badly as he kept trying to phrase it himself. Knows that every time Rick’s offered Daryl any form of help it’s been held for just a moment, enough to resister the feel of it, acknowledge that it’s there, before it’s been tossed back at him. Daryl views help as something precious and disregards it like he can’t bear to hold onto it.

“You remember when I told you that help always comes with a little bit of hurt?” Carol nudges him slightly with her elbow, draws his attention back to him, a little smile on her face like she knows what he’s just been thinking about.

“Yeah.”

“That hurt doesn’t only go one way, that’s something I forgot to warn you.” She looks almost regretful about it, like Rick hadn’t realized that as soon as caring established itself, he knew it was going to hurt before she ever told him it would, thought of who it’d be hurting hadn’t seemed important. “If you help, you’re getting involved, you open yourself up to the risk of getting hurt.”

“I already have.” Rick says, shrugging his shoulders, resigned to the fact that there’s nothing he can do about the weight on them and not yet wanting to lighten it even if he could.

“And you still want to?” Carol smile spreads, and Rick’s pretty sure she knows his answer before he speaks.

“Yeah.” It’s affirming what they both know, setting it in stone and despite the conversation topic, Ricks smile shines as bright as Carol’s own.

“Then he’ll be alright.” She says. “That’s what you were wondering, isn’t it, if he’s alright?”

She like a mind reader, can reach so easily into Rick’s head and work out everything he’s struggling to even notice, pulls and tears and reshapes and flattens out until their perfect again and Rick doesn’t know how he went without talking to her again for so long.

“He came over, needed somewhere to go.” He admits, still checking the playground for anyone nearby. “He left, and he must’ve thought he’d done something wrong.”

“He doesn’t want the sanctuary.” Carol says, always so knowing. “Doesn’t think it exists.”

Rick nods his head, understanding. “No, he doesn’t.”

“If he can’t understand that yet, maybe he needs to go back, maybe he already has.” Rick can’t help but frown, and Carol throws him a look that full of sympathy and understanding and knowledge too wide for Rick to ever comprehend. “I went back to Ed more times than I can remember. And eventually I just… Broke enough to let myself be fixed.”

She laughs at her own thought, bringing a glove coated hand up to her mouth to cover it. Rick smiles, because he’s never really heard her laugh. It’s nice, Carol’s nice and he can’t understand why anyone would ever want to hurt her.

Can’t understand why anyone would hurt Daryl either.

“It’s melodramatic, but it’s a good way of looking at it.” She says, wiping away a little bit of water from the corner of her eye.

“I took him to Hershel’s, dropped him there.” Rick explains, still hesitant over the idea of him going back ‘home’.

“And he might’ve stayed there.” Carol says, reassuring, her smile turning so kind in the face of Rick’s worry. “He also might’ve left.”

Rick nods his head, accepting of it at the very least. “I didn’t want him to go back.”

“It’s not about wants Rick, it’s about needs.” Carol repeats, and Rick would tell her he’s been trying to stick to it but he’s pretty sure she already knows. “Up until the moment those needs are handled, wants are ideologies.”

The remain sat there until the playground starts to get rowdy and even when Carol leaves and there’s nothing but noise and ruckus all around him, Rick is still left feeling calm.

It’s on the other side of town that Will Dixon sits, settled on his porch with his cigarette held in hands that shake so subtly it can be passed off as a shiver. One holds onto a cigarette, the other wound loosely around the neck of a beer, bringing them too his lips alternatively and washing the ashy taste clinging to his throat down with smoke, smirking at the irony of the whole thing and reminding himself to buy some damn spirits, lest he forgets to forget everything he doesn’t want to remember.

He stands up, lets the bottle in his hand fall to the chair behind him, takes one more drag from his cigarette and chucks it onto the grass, well versed in taking risks with fire after everything it’s done to him.

Reaching down beside him, he picks up his belt, wipes it on his hand and fastened it around his waist, steps off of his porch and takes a breath of morning air. It feels too pure for his lungs, and Will laughs it out as soon as he’s breathed it in, coughing up some more smoke once it’s gone.

Getting into his truck, Will drives down to town, keeps his mind carefully free of everything because nothing in there’s been safe enough to fiddle with for a long time.

He clenches his fist around the steering wheel, feels the blood in his nails leave fingerprint patterns on his palm.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks! We just got over 500 kudos and 200 comments! Thank you! :)
> 
> I'm really glad people were exited for this chapter! I just hope it isn't disappointing! (sorry if it is)
> 
> Warning for child abuse - I tried to take a little bit of a different approach to the situation, not sure whether it will seem like anything different but I tried! Please acknowledge that Daryl is not forgiving towards his Dad, he's simply realizing that there might be reasons linking to the things he does, he doesn't think that's any excuse and neither do I, but it's still there! I hope you enjoy anyway! 
> 
> The 'Four Walls and A Roof' line and 'Pretty Much Dead Already' is from the Walking Dead, I just borrowed them! :)

When Daryl gets home his Dad isn’t there.

He takes that as a sign that he’s doing the right thing, that he read the warnings right.

The forest surrounding the house is as quiet as ever, and for the first time Daryl doesn’t feel embraced by it. Instead it feels daunting, encroaching, like the sanctity of it is going to sneak up on Daryl and remind him of old times, persuade him to walk into it with open arms and embrace the loneliness that influenced him for so long. Maybe even take a trip to the river, let the tide drag him away from everything, wrap him in waves and water and drag him deep, where light can’t touch him and the cruel constriction of day remains elusive.

The sun isn’t shining, and the day’s first rays of light aren’t yet breaching the horizon. Daryl resists the pull with the sudden solidarity that the light doesn’t just elude him, it isn’t specific in its absence.

Daryl spends some time looking up at the house, figures it’s the last time he’ll be able to do so. He always thought the house looked better by moonlight, knew it hid all of the things Daryl never wanted anyone to see. It reminded him of Merle, of Merle’s life lessons that were always so centered around lying, but the thought of being ‘okay’ feels foreign when he looks up to the very place that makes it impossible, the place where his words feel the loosest but are held the most firm.

He walks into the house slowly, despite already knowing that no one’s there. It’s a force of habit, and one that Daryl knows stems from too many night stumbling his way out of the forest into the equally as tenacious grip of his Dad, whose hands hurt more than misplaced branches and sharp stones every could.

Whereas the emptiness of the place once bought him a misplaced sense of longing, now it does nothing but comfort in its own way, reminding him that not all contact means companionship, that feeling needed doesn’t outweigh feeling wanted.

Daryl takes his time walking through the place, because even though he doesn’t think he’s coming back (and there’s very little to come back too) there’s some things that hold about the largest amount of sentimental value anything owned by the Dixon’s could ever have.

Like Mom’s old glass cabinet that stands now as nothing but a mismatched frame of wood, the glass long missing from it. The scar running parallel to his collarbone remains one of the worst on his chest, and Daryl can only remember the chain of events that caused it in segments, a dream that slipped through his fingertips when he regained consciousness but left marks that solidified its happening. Daryl had freaked out when the blood he had left in his damn body made its way back to his brain, and when Merle had come in to see what all of the hollering was about he’d freaked out to.

It was one of the only times Daryl went to the hospital, and the only time Merle actually remained there long enough to make sure he was okay.

When the nurses asked, Daryl said he tripped over his crossbow and Merle smiled at him from the corner like an proud parent and told him _‘Good job baby brother’_ when they’d left.

Another is the water pipe running along the top edges of the room, stretching across three of the four walls and an ugly brass color that sets of the dirty white paint. Dad used to get pissed at them for thrashing around when he beat them, didn’t like the scars distorting their arms instead of their back when they used them as a shield. Eventually he bought a new belt, used it to tie their arms to the pipe so they couldn’t thrash, so there was no way to shift the sight of impact. He never got the new belt dirty and he barely ever wore it. Gave it to Merle the first time he got out of prison.

Merle still wore it, beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that. A lot of the time Daryl thinks he just has it as a reminder.

The only other memorable thing was his bed. The Merle Dixon parenthood philosophy of _save your tears for your damn pillow Darleena’_ accompanying him to sleep more nights then not. There were more bodily fluids in this bed then he cared to think about, and if he could drain the blood and tears out of the thing it would probably make up a good third of its density. There’s an awful lot of cum in there as well, and even though this bed took him through the majority of his adolescence, most of it isn’t his.

It’s disgusting.

That’s the problem with Dixon sentimentality. It’s all bad, it’s all disgusting, it’s keepsakes from being hurt that they only care about because it reminds them they lived through it. 

Lived through it. That isn’t right, none of them lived through any of it, any part of them that was ever living was gone the day Mom was. Not because it was any better before that, because it wasn’t. Dad was just as mad at them, Merle was just as mad at the world and Daryl was just as mad at himself. But they didn’t have sentiment back then, didn’t allocate it to objects based on how much pain they garnered from them. That was new, that was recent, that was Mom going up in smoke and the lot of them wishing they’d gone out with her.

It’s the grudge, really, that they did survive, that they didn’t die, that they’re still going. 'Cause even if Daryl told Merle they weren’t ashes it doesn’t mean they didn’t want to be.

It’s like Maggie said, they’re all surviving. Not because they want to live but because they just can’t bring themselves to die.

It’s taken a long time for Daryl to realize how much of a difference that it.

Daryl’s halfway through packing a bag full of all the shit he needs when he hears the steady tempo of boot covered feet against the shitty wooden floor of the hallway. It’s a sound he knows well, one that repeats itself even when it isn’t playing out in front of him.

“Shit.” Daryl says, under his breath and quietly as he can. He always forgets that Dad’s a hunter too, that when both of them are together, Daryl’s always the one being hunted.

The door to his room isn’t shut. Daryl had thought he could get in, get out and no one would ever be the wiser. He'd thought back to being 10, lost in the woods with no way back to the house, no one _at_ the house to find him and bring him back. It'd become expected, that no one would be there, no one would notice, no one would care. Funny how fate changes itself just as you think you've figured it out.

“What d’ya think you’re doin’?” Dad says, not even turning to face Daryl. He side eyes him, bear bottle so close to his lips the air from his words whistle through it. It’s sounds like a macabre version of the wind through Maggie’s window and Daryl’s never been more aware of the differentiation between their lives.

“Leavin'.” Daryl says, the truth slipping of his tongue as easily as it had at Maggie’s. He doesn’t want to lie, not when nothing’s alright anymore.

Dad snorts, turning to face him and leaning his shoulder against the doorway. He’s as arrogant as Daryl used to be, but the confidence is so false Daryl can’t understand how either of them sustained it so long. It makes him angry at Dad, makes him angry at himself.

“And goin’ where?” Dad asks, smirk set around the top of the glass like a stopper. 

“Somewhere.” Daryl says vaguely, risks turning back to his bag when Dad doesn’t move any further from the door.

“What’s wrong with here?” Dad says, like he doesn’t already know, like he doesn’t stare round the place just as numbly as Daryl does, just as resigned to his lot in life.

“Nothin’.” Daryl decides on, the comparisons springing to mind slightly too reckless to voice. “Just don’t wanna be here.”

“You think this house ain’t good enough for you anymore.” The threatening lilt establishes itself in his voice and Daryl can’t even find it in himself to be concerned, doesn’t mind if he gets beat. What’s one last lashing for the sake of old times?

Daryl picks up some more shirts, shoves them into his bag. Zipping it up, he throws it over one shoulder, turning around to stare at Dad with his back as straight as he can make it and his head as high as it will go. “It’s not good for any of us.” 

“I paid good money for this house and you say-”

“It’s not a house.” Daryl says, despite Dad’s hatred of interruptions, despite the way his cheeks flush in his anger. House sounds too much like home. “It’s just four walls and a roof.”

“A roof that’s over your head.” Dad says, nostrils flaring, beer being tossed everywhere with the movement of his hand. “Kept you all these years.”

Daryl would rather spend a year out in a thunderstorm then another second under this roof, but he doesn’t tell Dad that. He just shifts his weight, settles in for either the verbal back-lashing or the physical one. There’s the smallest feeling of anxiety still trying to influence his actions, telling him to run back into the tender inconsistencies of the forest and never risk something like this again. Daryl knows the comfort of the forest, knows it inside and out, but it still doesn’t compare to the feeling when he’d looked Rick and Maggie in the eyes and seen the honest to God compassion there. 

Compassion directed at him, that he threw away because he was scared, that was handed back to him by Maggie and can hopefully be offered up again by Rick.

“You think you’re better than me?” Dad hisses, stalking towards Daryl with his bottle still in his hand. “Is that it?”

“I’m not better then you.” Daryl says, and Dad’s cruel lips curl back into his smirk. “I’m just your son.”

“That’s right boy.” He takes a swig from his bottle, wipes his mouth with the hand holding it and points a finger towards Daryl. “Don’t you damn forget it.”

“We’re Dixons.” Daryl continues, like Dad never even spoke, a bitter smile curling onto his own lips and not particularly caring about the consequences. “And Dixon’s ain’t nothing special.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, dropping the empty beer bottle in his hand beside the door, the remaining dregs of it splashing out onto the already stained carpet.

“You really think we’re anything anymore. You think there’s anything left in the Dixon name, anything left in us.” Daryl spits, angry as a wet cat but aware of himself enough to hold it back, let it fester like Merle’s but never flare like Dad’s. “There weren’t nothing there to start with.”

Dad advances towards him, looking the most calm Daryl’s ever seen him. That doesn’t sit right with Daryl, doesn’t look like Dad. Dad’s numbness, Dad’s anger, Dad’s being pissed enough that he can’t remember which son he didn’t already drive to drugs. 

“You sit and stare at Uncle Bill’s gun like you want to use it.” Daryl says, watching Dad’s stop, his head tilting to look at Daryl like this version of him is foreign. And it is, Daryl’s never provoked him like this before, never done anything but sat there and taken it. “Either on me or Merle.” He continues, watches that temper flare like he knew it would. “Or you.”

He starts unbuckling his belt and even though the rational part of Daryl tells him he should shut up and beg for forgiveness, the rational part’s been wrong an awful lot of times and Daryl’s made it a lot smaller recently. Rationality doesn’t have a place here. Daryl’s rationality was letting himself get hit to avoid being hurt, and now he’s conscious enough about right and wrong to understand the difference, he realizes how stupid that philosophy was.

“And maybe you should, do the world a favor and pull the damn trigger cause Dixon’s ain-” 

The punch knocks his head to the side, his half bitten off sentence ringing in his ears, and the force of Dad pushing him back into the wall only adds to the noise. Dad’s got his belt loose, holding it so the buckle's free and the leather’s crinkling in his clenched grip. The hand around his throat is tight, not choking him yet but threatening the strength to do so, displaying it in rhythmic clenches that make Daryl’s breath catch, his throat blocking his air, prepared for and anticipating the loss of the ability to take more in.

“Get on yer damn knees.” Dad says, and even though the anger’s there it’s still more tamed then Daryl’s ever seen it, bubbling under the surface and twice as weaponized as usual.

Daryl thinks about it, looks at Dad and can’t even hate him because he knows they’re the same person, a two way mirror with a few more cracks on Dad’s side, a few more screws loose, leaving it crooked and uneven and distorting Daryl’s reflection just as much as it does his own.

Dad’s got that shine over his eyes and maybe it’s alcohol or maybe it’s whatever other poison is floating around his system but Daryl thinks it looks a little too similar to the look in his own, when his emotions fray and splinter and sadness starts to look an awful lot like anger. 

He thinks of Rick, thinks of Maggie, thinks of Hershel. Wonders if his Dad would’ve been like this if someone thought to help him, if he’d had someone look at him like he wasn’t a no good piece of shit, if he’d realized that he didn’t have to become one just so people would stop expecting it of him. It’s no excuse for what he does, but it’s sad as anything and Daryl almost pities him, pities the father he could have been, shattered reflections of proud moments, hunts in the wood that stayed focused on the game and silent memories where expectations slowed enough to seem bearable.

In the end he does as he’s told, turns around and kneels down, keeps his shoulder’s rolled inwards and his hands between his legs so he doesn’t think to use them. Dad goes to town on him, no warm up hits with the leather edge, no swings that are meant to scrape rather than tear. Just full out grunts of exertion, the buckle tearing though Daryl’s shirt as easily as it does his skin. The lashes cross over the older ones, ripping open the sections of flesh that had already healed and re-establishing the pain that had only just started to taper.

Daryl bites his tongue and bears it, puts everything he’s learnt here to good use because he ain’t ever gonna have to use it again.

“You ain’t nothing.” Dad says, spitting at Daryl while he gasps for air, bloody buckle hanging loosely at his side.

Daryl risks looking over his shoulder, well enough versed in how quickly Dad’s temper takes to burn out. His face is pure rage, and Daryl thinks he’s actually done him a favor, because negative feelings are still better than feeling nothing at all.

“Neither are you.” He pants out, only the slightest inkling of tears in his voice, left bloody and bleeding on the floor as he watches Dad walk away. 

Dad turns around, and Daryl honestly thinks he’s gonna come back for seconds, his rib cage rising and falling just as much as Daryl’s own. He’s looking at Daryl’s back more than his face and Daryl knows he’s got the same scars, that they were painted with the same brush, the same misunderstood idea of ‘love and care’. 

“You leave, you don’t come back.”

Oddly enough, Daryl thinks of Mom again, like he often does. The largely undiscovered and unexplored feeling of mourning throbbing in his chest. _'You leave, you don’t come back.'_ Isn’t that just the shortest and sweetest explanation of death right there? It’s almost symbolic, that that’s the choice he’s giving him right now. _'You leave, you don’t come back'_ , _you leave and you’re dead to me_. That’s the way it’s always been before, and Daryl doesn’t think Dad’s ever thought someone who’s still surviving would want to leave and live. You leave when you die, that’s your out. 

The only people that have ever ‘left’ were Mom and Bill and he thinks maybe that’s why Dad’s so confused. Maybe he thinks both of them would’ve come back if they had the option.

Daryl knows better, knows they made the right choice in leaving. He doesn’t even care if he’s dead to Dad, dead to the past. He was already dying there he just didn’t realize it. It hits him like the strongest kind of realization that that’s what surviving is, just a slower way of dying, and after 17 years of it Daryl supposes he’s pretty much dead already.

It’s why he really wants to leave, leave and live and not look back because he’ll finally feel alive.

_'You leave, you don’t come back.'_

Dad isn’t the type to hand out kind words, isn’t the type to help. Still, Daryl can’t help but think it sounds like advice.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter and well as the kudos, comments and bookmarks on this entire story! As I've said before, you guys are the best! :)
> 
> Extra long chapter because I think you all deserve it! Hope you all enjoy this one and all that follows! We're over halfway there! :)

By the time Daryl wakes up from whatever unconscious state he’d fallen into the sun is shining high in the sky and the air of the trailer feels as stifling against Daryl’s blood soaked skin as the atmosphere does.

He’s fallen onto his side, curled up and arranged like he was trying to escape into the grains of the carpet. If anything, the room looks worse this way. The walls don’t stretch high enough to have avoided the grime that clings to Dixon skin like parasites and the ceiling’s a dull yellowed color, fallen prey to the ever constant smoke that lingers in the air and festers in their lungs. The carpet’s probably the worst, from where Daryl can see it. Grains and stains that Daryl doesn’t even want to imagine, doesn’t even want to remember. There’s secrets hidden in this room, close enough to feel but too far away to see.

Daryl wonders how many of those secrets are still hidden and which remain small enough to never be found.

His back flares in bittersweet flames when he moves, the cuts no longer the ever persistent ache of barely healed skin so much as the constant wet, ripped, torn feel of open lacerations. His shirt’s completely ruined, torn apart and soaked with so much blood it’s clinging to the cuts like it wants to merge with them, be a hindrance and a help at the same time. 

Daryl lifts his arms, clenches his teeth together to stop any noises slipping from them.

_Enough’s slipped from you already._

New streams of blood make their way down his back to settle into the waistline of his jeans, be it from the excursion of moving or the removal of any skin that had managed to heal. Daryl chucks the shirt onto the floor, having what started as a brief moment of regret that he only had Rick’s shirt one day and he still managed to wreck it but solidifies itself into the bone deep feel of failure, scooping out the marrow of them and cramming itself in its place. Daryl sighs, his skin splitting and parting as he raises his hand to rub against his face, trying to scratch off the crinkled feel of drying tears that sit on his skin and burn as badly as the lashes.

He takes a deep breath, notes that the cracked rib stings just as badly as it had before and thanks whatever God might still give a fuck about his gratitude that it isn’t worse. 

Daryl stands up, shaky on legs that have been denied blood for the best part of the morning, be it because he slept on them or because most of it tried to escape out of his back. He feels like a skittish fawn, wonders if it runs in Dixon blood to hunt animals that’re more akin to them than other humans. He puts a hand to the wall to steady himself, notices the bloody hand print it leaves behind once he feels stable enough to remove it. He can’t say he minds leaving it there, what’s one visible secret in a room that leaves so many untold?

Daryl doesn’t move straight away, runs a steady hand over the edge of the print and thinks of school, all the times his hands shook too much to participate in marking anything. It’s bitterly humorless that only in the throes of letting go of everything he ever tried to cling to can his shattered nerves and shaking hands stabilize themselves enough to properly grasp it.

He leans down to the side of the bed, avoids touching it for fear of the suffocation that once stranded him on it recapturing its steady grip around his throat. He grabs one of the shirts he hadn’t thought to take, a black sleeveless button up with the arms ripped off, one that may or may not have belonged to Merle when it was actually whole. Like many things in the family, Daryl only comes into possession of them when they’re in pieces.

He’s glad it’s black at least, mainly because the blood on his back is slowing steadily but even slower in its willingness to stop completely. He grabs his bag off of the floor, puts it over the shoulder that feels less tattered and gently brings it to rest against his back, hoping the fact that he can’t move every quickly right now anyway will prevent it from moving and scraping the small percentage of healthy skin he has left on his back straight of it, wanting to cling to the fragile remnants of whole that barely grasp at everything broken.

Walking out of the house for the last time is easier then he thought, despite the difficulty present in putting one foot in front of the other and actually achieving the movement required to leave. Once he’s out of the door he feels lighter, not so much like ashes as like air, and even though his rib protests against it his lungs swell with the feel of freedom that encompasses the forest, holding the air in as long as he can and treasuring the gentle reassurance the breeze brings.

Once he gets within relative safety of the tree line, Daryl ponders where exactly he should go.

Even with all the things he should probably factor into the decision, an answer solidified itself in his thoughts long before he realized the direction he started moving in was already the right one. He thinks of white walls that don’t scream home at someone who doesn’t understand having one, four walls and a roof that feels like a house, but thankfully hasn’t yet transcended into a home. He thinks of a family, one that made pancakes and waffles but didn’t actually know how to make them, that struggled but succeeded, was dysfunctional in the way they function.

He’s minus one bloody shirt and normally that would feel like a debt, but Rick gave it to him like a gift rather than a loan. 

Daryl shrugs his bag further onto his shoulder, shifts his hip and arches his back to lessen the pain of friction against wounds that could barely handle touch at the best of times. He walks south, keeps going until he’s even more exhausted then he had been before, stopping only when his head protests every moment as repetitively as his feet do. He’s standing on the road to Rick's apartment block when he stops, as content as one can be with blood dripping between his shoulder blades feeling like literal shivers down his spine.

It’s Monday and the way the sun blinds him when he looks up to check it tells him it’s about 2 o’clock. It's probably too early for Rick to be home, and Daryl can't see his car parked in any of the spaces, so he sits down on the outdoor step and waits for Rick to get back, unconcerned about acceptance when it’s all he has left to hope for.

Rick himself doesn’t leave school until 2.30, doesn’t really see the appeal of heading home to nothing but bare walls and whatever’s left of daytime television. 

When he does drive home he practically blanks again, looks at the roads without seeing them, reacts without really questioning the reaction. It’s probably dangerous, probably even more stupid, but he gets home without much fanfare and it’s only when he’s pulling up onto his road that he see’s something and actually looks, actually takes the time to study and feel and evaluate what he’s seeing.

Rick pulls the car up, practically falling out of it in his attempt to get to Daryl faster. 

Daryl’s conscious when he gets to him, despite how much he looked like he wasn’t, but his weight is leaning heavily against the wall and the pressure on any part of him looks like it’s causing him pain he doesn’t have the energy to escape from. The bruises on his face remain largely the same as they had been before, the only addition being a large reddened mark just threatening color at the edge of his jaw.

Rick kneels down in front of him, doesn’t even think about leaning forward and pressing a hand to Daryl’s chin, gently encouraging his head to tilt from side to side. Daryl does it willingly enough, his eyes moving to meet Rick’s just as Rick’s had moved to meet his, drawn like the movement of a reflection in a mirror, one that’s steady enough for Daryl to cling to and look at with even the faintest sense of pride.

“How long have you been sat out here.” Rick lets his hand drop, but stays kneeling down, not entirely sure if Daryl can stand when he barely looks like he can stay somewhat perpendicular to the floor sitting down.

“Not long.” Daryl mummers, licking his lips when it comes out hoarse, trying to build up some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth and Rick makes a note that’s placed on guilt made paper and written with a pen that writes in liquid failure to get him a drink when they get in. “Sorry for just… showing up.”

“Do you need somewhere to go?” Rick asks, smiling slightly in abbreviated humor when Daryl’s head lolls as he nods, rolling slightly further to the left then Daryl obviously wanted it to. “Then why are you sorry.”

Daryl lets his head drop towards the wall and it’s instinctual, for all of Rick’s thoughtless reactions, that he moves a hand to stop the impact from being so harsh. “Still feels a bit like giving in.”

“Last time you said giving _up_.” Rick points out, gently nudges Daryl’s head back up and puts another one towards his bicep to help him stand. “So I think we’ve made progress."

Daryl hums in agreement, seemingly out of the conversation in all but physically standing in the line of Rick’s words and Rick could never even contemplate being offended when Daryl’s been waiting out in the midday sun for him and is moving like everything hurts a lot more then Rick has enough perception to realize. 

“Can you walk?” Rick asks, both his hands just a centimeter away from Daryl’s shoulders, in case it takes Daryl longer to get the answer out then it takes Rick to realize he can’t even stand.

Luckily enough, Daryl nods, letting Rick mother hen him all the way into the lift, a careful presence that stands by to be needed but doesn’t push the fact that he’s there. Daryl’s so grateful for the carefully respective concern, the ability to support someone without touching them, to be right by someone’s side without being on top of them.

Getting into Rick’s apartment is a struggle Rick gladly accepts but has difficulty with all the same, considering Daryl’s lost a lot of the ability to keep his head upright and it keeps lolling forward into Rick’s back while they’re at the door. Eventually Daryl doesn’t even try to fight it, just let’s his head rest in the jacket coated groove of Rick’s shoulder blades and tries his best not to either fall asleep or fall into a coma.

Rick moves so cautiously to get him up, twisting round with his hands to make sure Daryl doesn’t fall, holding him up and away from himself so he can turn to face him, moving him back into the apartment steadily, careful steps and careful intentions. Daryl uses the last dregs of his energy to make it to the couch, trying not to put too much of his weight on Rick even though he knows he could probably take it. Rick lowers him onto the sofa as carefully as everything else he’s done, Daryl’s bag dropping discarded onto the floor from Rick’s shoulder as he shifts Daryl so he’s lying down, not wanting him to fall and hit his head on the arm rest.

“I take it you want to sleep?” Rick asks, with the calmest of smiles he can manage when seeing someone in this state.

Daryl doesn’t respond, but Rick considers that fact that he’s already out as answer enough.

Rick doesn’t leave his side, couldn’t even if he had somewhere else to be, sits on the opposite armchair with the TV on but carefully muted, a look thrown to Daryl every once in a while to check he’s still sleeping. He’s on his back, one arm draped over his chest and another resting flat on his abdomen, his head’s tilting slightly towards Rick and the part of his hair is forced to fall in the opposite direction it usually does. Rick doesn’t stare too much, enough to check he’s both still asleep and still breathing and then carefully back to the TV.

Its two hours later that Daryl wakes up, and Rick’s partially asleep himself when the abstract breathing pattern and shift from the couch register as something moving. He looks to the side, notices Daryl using both the arm of the couch and the back of it to pull himself up, trying his best to push himself round to sit normally but only partially succeeding. Rick leans from his own chair to steady him when he tilts forward slightly too much, Daryl letting him rest a hand against his chest before he regains his balance and waves him off.

Rick gets up one he knows Daryl won’t topple straight back into sleep, makes his way over to the kitchen and pours Daryl a glass of water, briefly considering orange juice before he remembers that he hasn’t though to buy any, not when he believed he’d be the only person here. 

Daryl thanks him when he’s handed the water, halfway through rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he reaches out his hand to take it. 

He drinks it fast, and Rick tries not to feel the reappearance of guilt that tries to strike him down over being home late. Telling himself he didn’t know someone was waiting for him, someone who actually needed his help. It doesn’t reassure him much, but he takes the glass back off of Daryl and heads through to get another one and all in all the fact that this one is savored rather than downed makes him feel a little less guilty.

“Do you need anything else?” Rick asks, once Daryl’s finished the second glass. _Need_ rather than _want_ not only because he thinks it’s more accurate, but also because he doesn’t think Daryl’s audacious enough to walk all the way to his house and then outright tell Rick what he _wants._

“Can I take a shower?” Daryl asks, his voice still hoarse despite the water, which makes Rick think dehydration wasn’t the main cause to begin with.

“Course you can.” Rick says, not able to stop himself helping Daryl off the couch, picking up Daryl’s bag for him again, figuring that it must have his clothes in it. “In the least weird way possible, do you need any help?”

Daryl’s expression, which had remained quite carefully neutral for most of their previous conversations brightens slightly, a smile just forming at the edge of his mouth. “Nah, I got it.”

“Well if you need anything,” Rick starts, pushing open the bathroom door and putting Daryl’s bag down inside it, letting go of the grip he has on Daryl’s arm so he can move in there to. “Don’t be afraid to ask.”

Daryl goes to shut the door, stops about halfway there, leaning his head on the frame slightly like whatever he’s about to say makes it feel heavy. Rick waits patiently, doesn’t pressure him to say anything at all, content for the only response to him waiting ending up as nothing more than the shutting of the door and silence.

“Thanks.” Daryl says, closing the door once he’s said it like he feels the need to hide from the words, from Rick’s reaction to them.

Rick belatedly thinks that it was heavy. That gratitude from someone who’s never had anything to be thankful for must weigh as heavily as his ever present guilt. He still smiles as he walks away, reminding himself to take extra care in plucking the weight from Daryl's shoulders more often

It leaves Daryl alone to stand in the bathroom, wrestle his shirt off in front of the mirror and try to contort himself enough to see the extent of the damage. From what he can see, the cuts look deep, but the blood’s just about stopped running away from the tattered skin grasping at it and the mass of what’s left is dried and flaking.

He briefly contemplates a bath, thinks it might end up being less painful then the harsh spray of the shower against such fragile skin. The considerations ends quickly, when Daryl is reminded of what he did last time he was in Rick’s bath, the soothing caress of water that called for him like a siren, lulling him into the dangerous areas of calmness and comforting him in silence so he doesn’t recognize the struggle of drowning.

Daryl turns on the shower before he can think too much about it, steps in quickly to get the inevitable out of the way. The water’s cold when he it hits him but burns as it had last time, and if anything the warmer the water gets the less it feels like his skin is melting off his skeleton. Once the cuts on his back are soaked and the addition of water no longer feels like poorly timed acupuncture, the water is actually quite pleasant, successful in soothing muscles Daryl hadn’t realized were so stiff.

When he reaches for it, he realizes with no small amount of relief, that Rick’s shampoo isn’t some fruity, flowery ‘explosion’ of fragrances. It smells like soap, and considering Daryl’s been using that his whole life, it’s a nice familiarity to such a different overall atmosphere.

He does everything quickly, washes, rinses and gets out again, absentmindedly glancing into the mirror as he passes it, focuses on his face this time and wishes he’s never bothered to look, something sharp in the back of his mind whispering thoughts of remembrance, shedding light on that which is unfocused, _‘you look like her’_ and _‘you look like him’_ and _‘there’s no getting away from what you are.’_ He buries his head into his hands, reminds himself that he escaped what he could’ve been, and that still had the potential to be worse than anything he’s already become. 

He turns at the knock on the door, drags his hand down his face and reaches over to open it one handed, leaning round the edge of it so that only his head and shoulder are visible. 

“Towel.” Rick says, in explanation, holding it towards Daryl. “Forgot to put new ones in there.”

Daryl hesitates in taking it and Rick notices enough to ask what’s wrong.

“It’s white.” Daryl says, almost too quietly for Rick to hear him properly. _I don’t want to mess it up._

Rick doesn’t say anything, definitely doesn’t mention the odd wetness clinging to leather as he ran a hand over it earlier, the red tackiness of it against his finger, that he knows it was blood he cleaned from the couch but doesn't think it's safe for Daryl to know that. He can understand Daryl’s reluctance, both to take the towel and to speak about anything else. He hands it more insistently anyway, doesn’t stop until Daryl takes it off him and reluctantly holds it up to his chest.

“It’s fine.” Rick says. “There’s always more towels."

He goes to walk away, turns from Daryl with a sigh and starts to make his way back down the corridor, only stopping when Daryl calls back out for his attention. He turns and Daryl’s still stood in the same place, hidden by the towel and the door, wet hair dripping water droplets onto his eyelashes. He’s biting his lip, and Rick, like he once did with Lori, is starting to recognize that as an anxious tell.

“Do you,” Daryl starts, his lips rolling out from between his teeth as he starts to speak. “Do you have any antibiotic stuff, or cheap ass spirits?”

“I take it you’re not getting drunk.” Rick says, the long established feeling of worry rearing up again.

“No.” Daryl says, heavy like it’s an admittance even though Rick already knows he’s hurt.

“Wait there.” Rick smiles at Daryl, reassuring, and walks through to the kitchen where he keeps his first aid kit, pretty sure there was a tube of some form of antibiotic ointment in there.

He has to take a few deep breaths before he walks back, knowing that something’s wrong, that Daryl’s hurt in a way that requires ointment, that it’s not a bruise or one trying to blossom but a cut. It’s makes Rick uneasy, nearly as much as the added on _‘or cheap ass spirits’_ had, all the affirmation Rick needed that this definitely isn’t the first time Daryl’s done this and that he certainly never had something as basic as ointment to do it with.

Daryl’s still leaning against the door when he gets back, using the towel to shield the carpet from most of the drips working their way down from his hair. Rick hands Daryl the first aid kid when he reaches him, stopping the door as Daryl goes to close it.

“Are you okay?” He asks, low like a whisper but reverent like a prayer.

“Yeah.” Daryl breathes back, looking like the weight of Rick’s inevitable questioning had been resting on his shoulders, that the weight of him finally speaking them alleviates it, puts the burden on his tongue instead and makes it hard to speak.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Rick says, as bluntly as he’s able, ready to grab Daryl and grab his keys and haul them both over there if the answer is anywhere close to a yes.

“No.” Daryl says, shaking his head at Rick’s insistent look. “I’m okay.”

Rick nods, reassures himself that Daryl would tell him something like that, tries his best to believe his own thoughts. “Do you need any help?”

“I’ve already asked for your help.” Daryl says, tucking the towel in closer towards him like he’s still a little ashamed of holding it.

Rick makes sure Daryl’s looking directly at him, holds the eye contact throughout his sentence, re-establishes the reflection Daryl so wants to keep unbroken. “You can always ask for more.”

Daryl nods, accepting of the words even if he moves away like he’d never even consider accepting the offer. “I’m okay.” He repeats, reaching forward to nudge Rick’s hand from the door frame and shutting it behind him.

Rick stands by the door, just in case Daryl changes his mind. He doesn’t mind not helping, Daryl does a good job of convincing him that just being here right now means he already is.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but Daryl seems content with anything Rick manages to give him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks! The support on this continues to amaze me! You're all amazing! :)
> 
> A quick note to say this is officially over 100,000 words! I have 8 chapters left to write so I'm not sure how long it will end up, but I hope you don't mind it! :)
> 
> Hershel is the nicest principal ever and he cares about his students as well as his teachers and no one will convince me otherwise :)

Daryl sits over the bath while he cleans his back.

He doesn’t use the mirror, partly because he knows from previous experience that there is no way to contort his back enough to help much, and that after checking to make sure he’ll be okay without stitches he just doesn’t want to see it.

He’d never liked mirrors, thought they showed too much of what everyone else could see, reminded him of how easily everything that was wrong with him jumped out at them. (Showed him how much he looked just like Dad, practically played the portrayal of his life out for him.)

Daryl used to joke that he ‘had one of those faces’. When he got old enough to make a mockery of himself and discovered it did a good job of avoiding any misplaced questions.

He didn’t mean that he was in any way memorable, or that people felt like they knew him, more because the other boys at school would sit round him at lunch, circling like vultures around prey that was too damn stupid to defend itself, and ask him why his face looked the way it did.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Daryl’s actual face, but Daddy often cause bruises, and bruising often classed as deformities, and Daryl knew better than to actually _say_ that.

So, he ‘just had one of those faces.’

And although it had started off as a joke, it sort of manipulated itself into acceptance, that he’d always look different because everything he was just called for it.

His back was proof enough of it all, and Daryl doesn’t want to see the ruination of that any more than any other part of himself.

It’s not that he thinks it’s ugly, probably because Daryl’s never been concerned with being pretty and it’s not marring anything if there’s nothing for it to mar. It’s more macabre, all shredded skin and exposed tissue and blood that swells inside the cuts and shifts itself to the edge, curls up like a ball and clings to that which is broken to avoid falling and being broken itself.

That’s pretty much how Daryl feels.

Daryl’s surprisingly adept at working out his current emotion, he’s just also very well established in completely ignoring it. Right now he flays it open, open and bleeding like the mess of his back and undecided as to which one hurts more. 

He feels cracked, splintered, like half shattered glass or half shattered ice, all splintered edges and instability and a support structure that won’t last long enough to be beneficial if he ever needs it. It feels treacherous, unbalanced and Daryl’s tightrope is swaying in the wind above nothing but gagged edges and cracked safety nets.

Repercussions. That’s what Maggie said. Balance. The unsteady, unreliable relationship between both, and for some stupid reason Daryl though that changing his environment would change his atmosphere. Everything still feels so daunting, everything he does is still so carefully balanced, he’s still so unwilling to ever even imagine the repercussions of losing it, and Daryl doesn’t know how he can maintain balance when his entire world has shifted from beneath him.

It’s lost balance, it’s free falling and Daryl knows the fractured splinters that wait for him at the bottom, he knows his own consequences because he made them himself, designed them in his own head to offset the desire of wanting to fall. Wanting to fall because flying high above everything was so tiring when you know it can’t last, being so numb to everything you’re feeling because you don’t want the weight of emotion to drag you out the damn sky. 

Letting go of it, falling, that seems like the quickest way down, the fastest way to get his feet back on the ground, get his head back in the right place. Even though it’s going to hurt, it can’t be worse than the agony of knowing that hurt is inevitable.

His hands stick like adhesive to everything he’s clung to for so long and even though he’s unwilling to let go he’s so, so desperate to move on. He’s been stationary, stuck in slow motion, watching his life go by and not caring that it’s gonna end before he gets a chance to live it because he was safe where he stood. He could take the hits and the beatings and he could survive. Living didn’t even factor into it until he looked at a family and saw that living was further away from dying then survival could ever be.

Daryl likes to think that maybe he doesn’t have to fall, maybe he can work himself free, establish safety nets that might actually catch him, long forgotten hands thrown towards him like lifelines. It can be planned, be the slow that’s always felt so safe, a controlled decent.

It’s the first time Daryl’s felt any type of control over anything since he held his head underwater and tried to breath around it.

And _‘you’re worried about being hurt’_ feels very far away, the stinging ache in his back reminding him that pain’s already found him, that there are ways to prevent it but not deplete it. Most importantly that he can survive it, can live through it.

The tightrope isn’t gone, but it’s the most stable it’s ever been and Daryl wouldn’t care if it wasn’t because falling doesn’t scare him when it feels like coming home.

Rick himself feels like coming home today was worth it, even sat outside in an empty corridor with empty walls and empty memories, the fact that someone who needs him is sitting on the other side of the door makes everything feel better.

He waits outside the room for half an hour and when he hears no sounds or movements other than the ones he would expect he stands up and moves to the living room to get his phone.

The couch has dried by the time he sits down on it, black leather bearing no marks of what was left on it. Rick still feels like he can see it, can feel the cloying touch of drying blood and the red droplets that had fallen to the floor like pearls, needlessly mimicking something beautiful when it's already precious in it's own right.

Once Rick has dialed it doesn’t take long for Hershel to pick up the phone, and even over such distance Rick feels put at ease by the tried and tested experience he knows will linger to every one of Hershel’s words.

“Daryl’s at mine.” He says, as soon as he hears the first inhale on the other side of the line, thinking of time limitations more than manners.

“How is he?” Hershel asks, not at all fazed by the abrupt start to the conversation.

“Battered, probably.” Rick says, running a hand over his eyes and pressing into the corners of them. “Was waiting outside for a good hour, collapsed on my couch and now he’s in the bathroom cleaning God knows what.”

There’s a sound on the other end of the line that Rick thinks must be Hershel tapping on something. “Has he shown you anything?” 

“No.” Rick sighs, at least partially resigned to the fact that Daryl might not tell him anything, that he’ll be left with bloody clues and psychological issues as his only ways to understand, to try and help. “But there was blood on my couch and he asked me for ointment.”

Hershel goes quiet, nothing but the individual noises of his breathing and the tapping that sounds far to rhythmic individually to be so disjointed together. Rick knows that Hershel likes the time to think, likes to give advice he knows will work and search for it accordingly but Rick’s hurried glances towards the bathroom are getting more frequent the longer the conversation goes on, knowing the time Daryl will spend in there is getting narrower by the second.

“What do I do when he gets out the bathroom?” Rick asks, his eyes remaining fixed on the subject of his speech since their last turn towards it, watching for the shift of a handle, the sound of someone in pain, anything that could alert him to Daryl shifting or struggling because those things seemed to have amplified in importance since the last time Daryl was here.

“You don’t mention anything he doesn’t mention himself, at least not specifically.” Hershel replies, not at all bothered by the interruption of his previous answer and Rick wonders how someone so caring could ever have been subjected to such a cruel life, thinks of Daryl and wonders if that’s the way it always is. It would be a sad fact if the best people really were treated the worst. “Be as general as you want but don’t force a topic of conversation on him.”

Rick nods his head, realizes that Hershel can’t even see him at the same time he thinks the action was probably more for his own benefit anyway. “How do I help?”

Hershel must be able to hear the impatient desperation in Rick’s voice, the need to help _right now_ because he doesn’t know how long the window of opportunity will remain as open as it is. “You’re already helping.”

“I’m sat on the damn couch while he-” Rick tries not to shout it, even though the intensity of it pushes for an increase of volume.

“You’ve given him somewhere Rick.” Hershel remains him, voice slow and steady. “I don’t think you understand how much that means.”

“I do,” Rick says and he honestly does it just doesn’t feel like enough, doesn’t feel like helping so much as using what he already has to benefit another. “It’s just-"

“What he needs right now is for you to be there. An open ear when he chooses to talk.”

“That hasn’t exactly gone well previously.”

“Because you tried to start the conversation.” Hershel reasons, making sense where Rick believed no sense could be made. “He has to give it up willingly, if he does at all.”

“I didn’t mean to push him, to panic him.” Rick defends, even when there’s no accusation he needs to be protected from, just understanding that doesn’t translate and ends up sounding like blame anyway.

“I know you didn’t.” Hershel says, still so reassuring. “That’s why it’ll be alright.”

Rick falls quiet, both because he’s still listening out for the sounds of an opening door and because, for all of Hershel’s reassurance, Rick can’t quite be sure he’ll get any of this right. It’s a weird situation, because nothing in it affects him yet he feels so affected _by_ it. Rick isn’t even completely sure what’s happened to Daryl but it lingers in his head like detail and knowledge and all the information he hasn’t got but feels known.

“You learn your lesson’s Rick, and you remember the things you’ve learnt.” Hershel reminds him, the tapping that had lingered throughout the whole conversation finally falling still. “Teachers can learn an awful lots from their students. Patience, kindness, perspective.” Hershel breaths over the line for a minute, and Rick can’t help but think he’s purposefully giving him thinking time. “You know all of it, you just have to put it into practice.”

Rick looks back towards the bathroom again, the phone coming to rest in the crook made between his shoulder and his neck. He doesn’t think he can add to that, recons that it’s probably intended to be the end of this particular conversation and even though he knows he’s taken up too much of Hershel’s time, the fact that Daryl hasn’t emerged from the bathroom yet tells him much more then he wanted to know about the extent of whatever damage has been done.

Rick sighs, turns back to face the still muted TV and watches the screen mundanely. “I don’t think he can come in tomorrow.”

“Of course not, neither can you.”

“What?”

“What did I just say about being there, Rick?” Hershel sighs, like it’s obvious. Rick supposes it probably is when he thinks about the earlier conversation.

“But-”

“Rick.” No room for argument, no room for debate. “We have substitutes for a reason, they’re perfectly capable.”

“I can’t ask for th-” Rick argues, because as much as he’d like to help him he doesn’t even know if Daryl would appreciate it, doesn’t even know it Daryl plans to stay. 

“You’re not asking, I’m telling you.” Hershel says, the subtle shifting over the line telling Rick he probably switched the receiver to the other ear. “I’m also telling you to jot Maggie’s number down and get Daryl to phone her, she’s been worried sick.”

“Hershel-”

“Rick.” Hershel sighs. “Don’t argue. You have a boy there who needs help, who doesn’t want to admit it. Save your energy for convincing him that he does.”

The calls cut off before Rick can protest again. 

He sighs, leans his head back onto the couch, drops the phone down beside him and rubs both his hands down his face. It’s isn’t quite as easy as Hershel makes it out to be, not with how little energy Rick has left. Arguments don’t require energy, it’s just two people disagreeing on disagreeing, hollow words handed to someone who will never care enough to remember what you say. Convincing someone of something is exhausting. Trying to entice someone into having faith in your own opinion is mind-numbing. 

Especially when you know you don’t have a hope in hell of making them believe you.

Daryl’s opinionated. Whether or not he realizes it is still up for debate, but he knows what’s right and wrong. He seems to lose that opinion when it’s associated with himself, like every moral thought he had evaporates into indifference when he’s the one being treated in a way he’d usually consider wrong. It’s something that troubles Rick, because surely one’s own morality can’t disregard any plight associated with the one who formed it? 

“Who was that?”

For all his careful consideration of it, Rick doesn’t notice that Daryl left the bathroom. He startles when he hears him speak, wondering how he missed the second Daryl came out when he’s been checking the door for the past half hour.

“Hershel.” He says, waving a hand in the direction of the armchair after Daryl’s handed him the first aid kit back. Rick doesn’t look, but he’s pretty sure most of the ointment's gone. Not that he minds, it just makes him extremely cautious of what exactly Daryl’s hiding, if he’s trying to be modest by downplaying the severity of it. 

“I’m in trouble.” Daryl says, like an extension of Rick’s own sentence. He’d love to say it like a question, but he’s sure enough to rule any uncertainty out. “For not going in.”

“No.” Rick says, shaking his head, leaning back slightly on the couch and propping his head up with his hand. “You don’t have to go in for the next few days. I don’t either.”

“I don’t need to be babysat.” Daryl says, on the defense before there’s even a threat of attack, backing into the couch like an animal or a child. It’s one of the first times Rick consciously thinks of how old Daryl actually is, tries to think of his experiences at that age and how much they differ from the type of things Daryl must have endured. It sounds like two completely different things, to have endured something versus experiencing it, and Rick supposes it speaks of the differentiation of their lives, that Daryl’s struggled to survive and Rick’s strived to live.

“I know that.” Rick says, trying to channel the type of calmness Hershel radiates so easily, wonders if that’s down to Hershel’s own experiences, his own endurance.

Daryl crosses his arms, and while his body language is shut off he looks more uncomfortably concerned then any variation of angry. “You don’t need to miss work to watch me, I’m not a little kid.”

“I don’t think you are.” Her barely gets the sentence out before Daryl’s jumping into his next one, and while Rick likes Daryl’s new found comfort in talking to him he doesn’t like the ease with which he can put himself down, insinuate that Rick thinks he would do something wrong.

“I wouldn’t do anything to the house, I-”

“Daryl.” Rick says, purposefully making it sound final, dragging Daryl’s attention back to himself. “I trust you with that, you’re mature enough not to.”

“Mature.” Daryl huffs, still looking at Rick with an uncertainty so different from his supposed confidence at the beginning of the conversation. “I’m not a kid, but I ain’t that old either.”

“Maturity isn’t age, its experience.” Daryl’s experiences are vast after all, despite Rick’s dispute over the correct term for them. All in all he’s supposes both words can be correct, that Daryl’s endured his experiences. “I imagine you’ve gone through more than most of the adults I know.”

“Then why do you need to-” Daryl starts again, 

“Everyone needs a friend.” Rick says, smiling at Daryl like he really means it and keeping it up even when Daryl can’t quite smile back.

It feels weird, not because Rick’s a teacher, Daryl hasn’t looked at Rick and thought of Mr Grimes in a long time. It’s that he has two _friends_. Maybe even more if you count Glenn and Michonne and Beth, but two people who have actually _told_ him they’re his friends.

It’s weird because it’s foreign, because Merle had never wanted Daryl to have friends, always told him to _‘stay away from that trash’_ like the two of them were any different. Merle had friends and Dad had friends and for a long time Daryl had just assumed he wasn’t allowed them. Didn’t even ponder the reasons, afraid that if he started thinking of them he’d find too many to count, to many fundamental reasons why Daryl Dixon deserved to be alone even when no one else did.

The closest he’d ever gotten to friendship was with the kids at his old house, when Merle was in jail and they’d tolerate Daryl running after them on their bikes. They’d seen his house burn down, looked at him with something that wasn’t quite pity, more reassurance to themselves, a reminder that they hadn’t quite stopped that low yet. Daryl should have been offended, but when he took the time to think about it he realized they’d looked at him like that even before the fire.

Daryl had moved away, and maybe if he’d lacked the new found understanding of the world that came with familial suicides he might’ve missed them, as it stands he barely even remembered enjoying their company. Maybe because he never really did.

“Oh and Daryl?” Rick asks, catching Daryl’s attention as he walks towards the kitchen. “Maggie’s number is on the coffee table, she’s worried about you.”

He doesn’t order it, doesn’t tell Daryl to call her with implication so wide he’s practically erasing all he said about maturity earlier and calling Daryl a child, he just gives him the means to make his own decision and backs it up with the steady resolve of friendship Daryl’s only just beginning to understand.

It feels like trust, like freedom and even though Daryl can still see rope swaying above his head, still remember the lingering touch of it around his neck it feels to far away to hurt him. And though his sense of self feels fragile as it’s ever been, he doesn’t think he’ll shatter.

He hopes his safety nets will help him fall.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you (once again) for all the lovely support on this! I really appreciate every comment, kudos and bookmark, it makes my day to know people are still enjoying this! :)
> 
> Please excuse the vague jump in the timeline. Last time I referenced it we were around Christmas and now it's March. I need it to be around Easter time though, so please don't hate me too much! :)

Daryl only phones Maggie the next day, partly because he was still exhausted and the promise of sleep had clung to his eyelids like dead weight and partly because he knew she had every reason to be annoyed at him, had hoped the absence would turn some of that annoyance into some small fraction of relief.

He sits down in the living room, Rick occupying himself with some variation of cooking in the kitchen. Rick’s no connoisseur and he certainly doesn’t have the talent to be a chef, but the simple fact that he takes the time to try it, that he takes care of Daryl in the aspects he excels at as well as the ones where he falls short, makes Daryl ridiculously happy. It’s something that’s never happened before, even that which was easy for people to do was never offered in any term of care and the most Dad ever made Daryl was a glass of water.

That’s not even the most startling thing about being here, because the ability to sit down and relax is something that’s been foreign to Daryl for a long time. Relaxation in general was a rarity, and even then it was only found in solitude, far enough away from others to remove them from being even a potential factor in how he’s feeling. The idea that someone can be in close proximity and he can still turn his back to them, still metaphorically show his weakest part even if that person has no idea of the reality of the statement, makes Daryl wish he had understood his own mentality earlier.

His perpetual tension had sprung forth from his inability to trust those around him, the idea of relaxing remained such a far off though because the reality of trusting people was something that never existed past imagination. Rick has captured Daryl’s trust, and Daryl’s both wary and thrilled at his apparent ability to conquer it. It removes the responsibility from him, like shrugging of a royal coat and giving it to the rightful King. Daryl would follow Rick round his small palace like a servant, kneel at his feet like subservience, if only to grasp the ability to rest and relax like some semblance of an equal.

Rick and Maggie rest in Daryl’s mind like King and Queen and Daryl knows he will never reach a level so high, not with his new found philosophy to stay firmly on the ground, and although he would wish to join them in their extravagance, their endless kindness, he would settle for merely a portion of it placed upon himself from time to time, the mirrored image of equality that stings like ice but soothes like water.

It’s the end of the school day when he phones and Daryl feels bad about making Maggie wait two days for confirmation that he’s alright. He supposes he couldn’t rightly know something like that unless he had figured it out himself and that counts as enough of an excuse to ease his anxiety.

“That better be you, Daryl.” Maggie says as soon as she picks up, the exasperation of her voice softened by near present relief.

“Hi Mags.” Daryl says, lifting one foot up onto the couch and resting his ear against it, settling down for the inevitable, battening the hatches against the imminent storm.

Maggie doesn’t blow up though, there’s no hurricane violence, no tsunami waves that wash over Daryl and feel like the repercussions she told him where so important, throws of the balance he’s since thrown away. “You know you had me worried sick.

“I’m sorry.” Daryl near whispers it, trying to convey the weight of the meaning despite how hollow the words always feel.

“You don’t have to be,” Maggie’s voice is louder than his own, is still softer than his will ever be. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I didn’t think.” It sounds like admittance, like a sin spoken through quivering lips, like sorry and sadness and stupidity. 

“Yeah, I know you didn’t.” Accusation in its purest form, biting and belligerent, softened by nothing but consideration for skin that Maggie knows has been damaged before, that knows too much of pain to be exposed to more. “That’s a particular character fault of yours Daryl Dixon.”

Daryl snorts, tilts his head into the crook of his arm and rests the phone there, bringing his hand to his mouth and chewing around his thumb. “Being stupid?"

“Not realizing people care.” Maggie corrects, biting out a laugh. Daryl hadn’t meant it as a joke, but pretending now comes as easily as lying used to. “You don’t realize how much your actions affect other people.”

“Mags, I can’t even tell how they’ll affect me until they've been done.” Daryl says, blowing away one of the pieces of hair that falls over his eyes, leaving them be when they fall straight back to place, admiring that at least one part of him still has some persistence.

“You could, if you wanted to.” That secretive voice again, Maggie being better at figuring him out then Daryl’s ever been. Forcing him to work it out anyway ‘cause she thinks there’s no fun in facts. “You’re not stupid Daryl.”

It’s an odd place to reassure him, so far into the conversation that Daryl can’t remember the reference of it until he thinks it through. He thinks she did it on purpose, left it till it seems vague and unrelated so he wouldn’t protest against it. It strikes a chord, practically plays a symphony, soft and sweet and the melody of forgiveness. It plays with Daryl’s emotions, takes him through the rise of agreement and the fall of dissent and leaves him in a particular segment of thought that neither fits with the piece nor contradicts it.

“You convince yourself that you have no options before contemplating the ones you have.” Maggie continues, when she realizes he isn’t going to say anything.

Daryl’s words feel stuck in his throat, not through constriction or panic, more because what she’s saying makes sense despite not taking everything into account. She talks about the things he could do, without regarding the things he had to do. Tells him of his options when there was only one that made sense.

“I had to go.” Daryl says, trying to get someone who understands the vagueness of what he does so well, to understand the specifics.

Maggie shifts on the other end of the line, her voice distant for a moment. “Why?”

Daryl doesn’t really know, supposes it had more to do with routine then reasons. “To settle things.”

“Balance again?” Maggie asks, linking back to old conversations that lingered in Daryl’s head and still sounded present. “You felt unstable?”

Daryl shakes his head, his hair falling further into his eyes as he chews along the inside of his cheeks, tries to remember his own emotions at a time when he was trying so hard to feel nothing. “I felt too balanced, too reliant.”

“Reliant on what?” Maggie’s voice sounds deeper in her questioning, more weighted by her need to understand then the extent of what she already does.

“Myself.” Daryl decides on, even with the level he had to contemplate it. The answer itself wasn’t one that originally sprung to mind, labelled as redundant like everything else that references to himself. It was pulled to the forefront anyway, pushed by the realization that no other answer sounded as correct.

Silence reigns over the line for a minute, Daryl waiting for Maggie to speak because he has nothing else to add. 

“How do you feel now?” It sounds almost irrelevant to the previous conversation, and Daryl would think Maggie had placed them into a lighter one on purpose if this one didn’t have just as much contemplative weight to it.

“Better.” Daryl says, shrugging despite the fact that she can’t see it.

“Better because you’re balanced?”

“Better because I’m not.” 

Maggie falls silent again and Daryl never realized how comforting the sound of someone just being on the other line could be, the solidarity of someone’s presence established in nothing more than their breathing, no need for awareness other than that which reminds you they’re still there. 

“Are you alright?” She says, and as studiously scripted as her conversations always are Daryl feels particularly thrown by the direction this one continues to take.

“You already asked me that,” He says, smiling at the sound of Rick dropping something in the kitchen, swear bitten out around a growl. Daryl half-heartedly notes that Rick’s voice can reach a surprisingly low tone, tries not to think of it again because it seems a little bit too personal. 

“I already explained the difference of those questions Daryl, don’t try and throw me off.” Maggie says, a gracious distraction.

“I’m alright.” Daryl says, humoring her persistence.

“Really?” Maggie says, heartfelt and caring as usual, the need to hear the truth after so many questions reminding Daryl that she cares about his answer to each. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“Why do you always ask me the difficult questions?”

“You don’t think enough about the easy ones.” Maggie laughs and Daryl can’t help but feel pride in being the reason for someone’s momentary happiness. “It’s why you’re not stupid.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I felt better.” Daryl answers, a smile curving at the edge of his lips because his back’s on fire but he can barely feel it.

Maggie hums over the line. “Better is very vague.”

“You said I didn’t have to be specific.” Daryl points out, turning to face Rick when he calls for his attention, mouths out that food will be five minutes and leaves him to it like he never interrupted in the first place. Daryl really likes that about Rick, as a matter of fact Daryl just likes Rick. There doesn’t need to be anything specific about it.

“You don’t.” Maggie answers. “We’ll leave it at general if that’s what you want to do.”

“It is.” _For now, maybe forever._ “I have to go anyway, Rick’s calling me for food.”

“Oh is that how it is?” Maggie says, the smile in her voice twice as audible a her actual words. “Leaving me for a date?”

Daryl practically chokes on his own air in his effort to find some contradictory words out, trying his best to cover his mouth, not wanting to alert Rick to the conversation now Maggie’s decided to fuck it up. 

“It ain’t like that Maggie!” Daryl hisses, surprisingly annoyed at the joke considering how much of one he made of himself when his own thoughts went the way hers are going, the fact that he’s been there and done that for all the wrong reasons and it was a train wreck he doesn’t want to explore again.

Maggie chuckles slightly over the line. “Oh hush, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Maggie seriously it isn’t funny.” Daryl says and the seriousness of it must shock some back into her because she sobers up pretty quickly, reads into the conversation however she likes but at least comes up with the best port of action.

“Okay, okay.” Maggie relents as easily as she started, blends down the tone of the conversation with a smile still in her voice better than Daryl ever could with his sudden flares of temper. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that someone phoned here for you as well.”

“What?” 

“Said his name was Merle?” Maggie said. “It was your house number that’s the only reason I answered.”

“Merle?” Daryl says, the word startled out of him like reflex movement. He gets of the couch, walks through into the kitchen and motions to Rick’s phone when he looks up to him. Rick nods consent, and Daryl’s got the calendar up before Rick can wonder what he needed it for. “He was at my house?”

The date is March 10th and Daryl can hardly remember what Merle’s release date was, but knew his sentence was something like two years and that it didn’t come around until sometime in July. There was always the possibility of good behavior, but Merle’s been in jail four separate times so far and none of those ended with anything less then what he was given.

“Yeah, asked about you.” Maggie says, sounding much more concerned then she had a few minutes ago. Rick’s looking at him like that too, trying to catch his eyes to get some idea of the situation. “I didn’t want to tell him where you were, since I didn’t know him.”

“He’s my brother.” Daryl says with a sigh, Rick moving around towards him once he’s put the plate onto the table. He mouths _‘Are you okay?’_ and Daryl nods to him if only to encourage him to sit down.

“Does that mean I should or shouldn’t have told him?”

“Thank you for not, actually.” Daryl admits, rubbing a hand over both of his eyes and thinking of the inevitable disappointment Merle would throw at him for being weak enough to ‘give up’. “He’s my brother but he’s also a Dixon, unreliable as hell, a bit of a dick.” He sits down opposite Rick, doesn’t touch the food yet but tries to speed up the conversation. “Did he say anything else?”

“Told me he was staying at ‘Pete’s house’.” Maggie says, every syllable ringing with her confusion. “Does that mean something to you?”

Daryl tilts his head slightly, tries to remember which one of Merle’s junkie friends is Pete, which shitty trailer park he live in. “It’s one of his friends, he never stays at the house.” 

“Does that mean you’re going to go?” _Go talk to him, go see him, go makes sure SWAT teams aren’t raining down on every trailer park in Georgia._

“He’s my brother, I gotta check on him.” Daryl says, summarizing as best he can as the grandiosity of this weighs back down on him, that his freedom lasted just long enough to solidify wanting it, to make it so it hurts if it’s taken away.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Maggie queries, sounding so worried for him that it makes Daryl miss the teasing she adopted earlier.

“He wouldn’t hurt me.” Daryl says, and it’s not a lie even if it’s not quite the truth. It covers the way she’s thinking anyway, Merle’s temper isn’t explosive like Dad’s, doesn’t destroy everything it touches so much as it festers into everything it sees. “I gotta go anyway Mags, thanks for telling me about him. Thanks for everything, actually.”

He puts the phone down on the table as soon as he’s hung up, picks up his fork before looking at Rick. When he does, he realizes Rick hasn’t even started eating yet, that 100% of his attention is still focused on Daryl despite having none of Daryl’s own.

“Sorry about that.” He says, digging into whatever pasta based thing Rick has made. It’s surprisingly delicious for someone who can’t cook but Rick speaks before Daryl can complement him on it.

“It’s okay.” Rick starts eating once Daryl does, reserves a small bit of his attention to that but keeps most of it based solely on Daryl, unwilling to even drop the established eye contact for fear of losing the conversation along with it. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Daryl breaks eye contact despite Rick’s insistence of it, glances down to his plate and tries to focus on eating. His emotions are a mess, overlapping each other and feeding each other and accumulating to a giant entanglement of vines that Daryl can’t even begin to reason away. He’ll be happy to see Merle, he really, really will be, but the lingering attachment to his ‘old life’ (as much as it’s the only thing that ever got him through it), still leaves the bitter taste of remorse in his mouth.

“Do you need a lift somewhere?” Rick asks, when Daryl doesn’t respond to his earlier answer.

Daryl shakes his head. “No, it isn’t far.”

“I don’t mind taking you.” He’s insistent, and Daryl doesn’t even find it annoying, finds some sick form of comfort in the way he can rely so heavily on Rick and still be offered more to take. How Rick can give him everything with a smile and keep smiling while he gives him more. He doesn’t know where the generosity came from, supposes it must just be a part of Rick’s general personality, but something about the extent of it makes Daryl feel wanted and he can’t even find it in himself to worry about the probability of his dwindling necessity for everything Merle ever did.

“I know.” Daryl smiles at him openly, closed mouth and not as wide as Rick’s own, but still as obvious as he’s ever made it. “You just don’t need to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, a walk will give me time to think.” To go through all of his options without disregarding them, to think about what he’s going to say because he isn’t stupid, just as he isn’t ashes and Merle has no right to say that revelation will accumulate into _‘nothing special.’_

“Is it okay if I go tonight?” He asks Rick, craving the approval as much as the permission.

Rick sets his fork down, the plate only half finished but still relaxing into his chair like he doesn’t intend to finish it. “I don’t control you Daryl, you can go whenever you want.”

“Just wanted to ask, your place after all.” Daryl says, no wanting Rick to question the maturity he’s already labelled him with, just wanting Rick to understand that he can conform to the rules, that he knows an authoritative presence when he sees one, even outside of the school system. There’s something about Rick that demands respect, even when he’s uncertain, even when he’s referring to someone else. He takes charge like it’s in his blood, yet remains the most conscientious Alpha male Daryl’s ever met.

“As long as you’re coming back to our place, I don’t mind a bit.” 

Daryl tries to ignore it, tries to carry on with the conversation like that wasn’t the only word that jumped out at him in the sentence. “Ours?”

Rick smiles, and Daryl starts to realize that it never really drops, that Rick Grimes is basically always smiling. It seems to oscillate, moving like the waves of the ocean, the swinging of a pendulum, the waxing and waning of the moon. The happiness is nearly always there just at different levels, different volumes, a brightness that never quite turns of past its ability to dim. “For as long as you want or need it to be.” 

“I'm coming back.” Daryl says, feels like he has to say it after the last time, wants to keep that smile in place.

“Then I’m happy for you to go.” Rick says, crossing his arms over his chest, only the barest slip of his actual concern visible on his face. “Will you be alright?”

Daryl nods, tries to strip that concern away and tell Rick to leave it for something that needs it. “Yeah, I meant what I said, Merle wouldn’t hurt me.”

“You sure about that?” Rick pushes, just a gentle shove towards dangerous territory, the playful nudge of a friend at a dangerous height. 

Daryl nods, doesn’t say anything more about it and Rick has learnt enough about reading someone who spent their whole life trying to remain unseen to know when to stop asking for confirmation on things that are already readily believed in.

“This was good.” Daryl says, motioning to the plate, smirking at Rick as he does so. “Thought you told me you couldn’t cook.”

“I can’t.” Rick smirks too, but it still looks like a smile to Daryl. “I just had a good reason to try harder.”

Daryl’s smirk settles back into a smile, one slightly hidden by his hand, still finding genuine happiness more difficult than teasing conversation. The smile on Rick’s own only fuels that happiness, pushes aside the lingering doubts of his encroaching old life.

This new one seems very good at establishing moments, happy moments that make him forget all the ones that weren’t.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left a kudos, comment and bookmark on this, as well as all those who continue to read it! You're all the best!
> 
> I really love Merle, so I tried to do my best by him! This is also the longest chapter so far, because you all deserve it! :)
> 
> The 'I just want my brother back' line isn't mine, just one of my favorites! :)

Merle’s ‘good behavior’ was sparse, but enough conviction could accumulate it into something worth keeping.

Conviction was what got him here and conviction got him out. A formal declaration and a firmly held belief. Merle was guilty as charged for all the crimes he did, deserved what he got and served what he was given cause the two coincided more often than not and it was his fault anyway. 

He wasn’t innocent, not in a single meaning of the word and he didn’t begrudge the things that stripped him of it before he had time to rely on it. There’s nothing to be found in innocence, not when you’re a Dixon, no white sheets that aren’t stained by blood and bigotry, no pure skin that isn’t run through with roughness, scar’s that pull and hurt in the rain and eliminate the idea of comfort as a concept when there’s none to be found in your own skin.

Merle’s ‘good behavior’ was torn from him a long time ago, left in sparse pieces that hung in the chamber of what once was but never could be, blew in the breeze like a ripped flag on the wind of shattered morals and shattered hearts that never knew how it felt to be whole. Brushed against the crooked moral compass that tried it’s best to find North but couldn’t even find the remnants of the person it was supposed to be guiding.

It didn't matter much anyway, the only direction Merle needs to be pointed in is towards Daryl.

Sweet little baby brother Daryl, with his compass as bashed in as Merle’s and his heart twice as torn, cupped together in shaking hands and blowing away like ashes. 

Daryl still clung to guidance, followed people because he couldn’t find himself, enticed by the kindness, the cruelty, the beating rhythm of something innocent, the feel of torn fabric against untorn skin.

Drugs had blurred Daryl one upon his time, unfocused his importance, disregarded his significance. Merle couldn’t remember a lot of the times when he was high enough to hurt Daryl, and in a lot of ways he was glad he couldn’t, glad he didn’t have to see the actions that led to his little brother crying in a corner and flinching away from him like Merle was Dad in all but form.

Those bruises always shined the most, stood out against the blurred image of everything else. Maybe it was because Merle put them there, maybe it was the tears that glistened on blossoming bruises and shone in the painful brightness of light harassing blown out pupils. Merle though it was mockery, _look what you’ve done, look what you did, look what you are._ Daryl’s bruises shone like a lighthouse on jagged rocks. That which Merle couldn’t see more dangerous then what he was forced to, and maybe highlighting something so painful was a way of keeping him away from the pains he ignored.

“Merle Dixon, out on good behavior.” One of the guards calls, superiority settled into every aspect of his smirk. “What’re the odds?”

“Didn’t realize we were playing a game.” Merle calls back, staring down the guard who’s searching him, reaching over to take his belongings off of another once he’s done. “What’re we bartering?”

“We don’t want none of your moonshine Merle.” One of them heckles, laughs uprising through the rest.

“Or your Meth” The one in front of him says, looks back at the others with a proud chuckle when they laugh.

Merle would get angry, but this isn’t exactly the place to do it, and although his practice had dwindled and his tolerance for such things was much lower than it once had been, so many years living with his Dad had taught him how to take humiliation with something that wasn’t quite a smile but could encroach on something not unlike a grimace.

“Good thing the odds are in your favor then, hey fellas.” He says, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he walks past the bulk of them.

They watch him go, most of them no doubt convinced that he’ll be back by the end of the year. Even if most of them are right it still pisses Merle off. “Why’s that Merle?” They ask, all in good humor.

“I don’t have no drugs on me, the moonshine fountain’s run dry.” Merle says, turning around to face them and shooting a two fingered salute in their direction. “I’m on my best behavior.”

He walks away from them leisurely, almost anticipating the angry words of whoever’s on gate duty shouting at him over the cameras. Walking out of places like this are about the most appreciative of life Merle ever gets. The breeze is cool now it isn’t recycled and forcefully circulated around a room and the sun shines down on him inhibited, warms his skin and warms his blood, makes him wish for his bike so he could speed down the road and feel as free as he ever does without artificial influences to his emotions.

Merle cuts through the forest, let’s his crooked compass direct him as well as it ever can when it’s set on the place Daryl should be.

It takes a while to reach the trailer but the forest remains unchanged from how Merle remembers it and it feels more like home then where he’s heading ever could. Daryl and himself used to take walks through the forest at all times, finding themselves in daylight and loosing themselves in the night. Daryl always preferred the daytime walks, always searching for something, always so eager to find things where nothing remains to be found. Merle preferred the night, liked to feel lost because it removed the reality from the situation, made it seem like the loss was momentary rather than never ending. 

Daryl always did cling to the things Merle had long given up on.

Merle mostly relented, would walk with Daryl in the daylight, look at his sleeping face in the light of the setting sun and be unable to rouse him, unable to hide him from the thrill of being found. He’d stay awake, both for safety and sanctuary, look out of the cracked window at the night and wonder if he should walk off, keep going until he’s lost and hope Daryl would stick around to find him.

The trailer looks as shitty as ever by the time Merle reaches it, perhaps a few more patches of wildlife melding themselves to the plaster, the forest trying to take back what’d once belonged to it, the children that had roamed its floors and called it home.

Dad’s truck isn’t home, which is a blessing to both him and Merle, but his bike is. Merle walks up to the triumph and checks it over, ready to let all hell loose on Daryl if he’s scratched it up. It looks untouched, as usual, and Merle wouldn’t be all that surprised if Daryl had barely used it past visiting him. 

He almost thinks of going for a ride, doing what he’d thought about earlier and just driving, driving until its night-time and he feels like he can breathe.

Ultimately, he decides against it, mainly because the bike being here means Daryl could be too, and as much as Merle could’ve unleashed hell on his brother, he’d walk straight through it himself to see him again.

The door’s practically bust off its hinges, but it’s been like that since Dad chucked Merle into it when he was 17 so it doesn’t rouse too much suspicion. The rest of the house remains the same as Merle remembers it, too much trash and too much dirt and not enough people to care about either, not enough compassion in the whole world to convince them to. There’s a glass of orange juice in the kitchen that must be at least a month old and Merle steers as clear of it as he can lest one of Dad’s friends did something to it.

“Baby brother?” Merle shouts, hearing nothing but the echo of his own voice reach back to him. 

He carries on walking, figures if the idiot isn’t asleep somewhere he’s probably out hunting. It’s only when he reaches the corner of Daryl’s room, only just remembering to check in there because of the empty beer bottle that catches on the edge of his boot that he looks up and realizes Daryl might be further afield then Merle ever thought he would be.

Most of his decent clothes are missing, his rucksack gone with them and it’s only as he steps into the room, his new found proximity to the far wall helping to illuminate that which was hidden by the shitty interior lighting of the trailer, that he sees the bloody hand print marring the wall.

It’s not only that either. The plasters caved in, a circular patch of mortar spreading itself into the grimy off set yellow of the wall, a hint of blood just circling around the jagged edge. Blood trails practically engrave themselves into the floor, droplets that hint at something and puddles that make that something known. It’s drained itself into the carpet, stains and secrets lingering in the fibers, layers and layers of lies scattered along the walls and the floor like evidence, ringing like truth and laid out to be found.

Everything Merle struggles to accept.

He runs a heavy hand down his face, breathes out and convinces himself that if Daryl isn’t here it means he isn’t dead.

_Unless Dad dragged him out back and-_

Merle walks round the room for a while, trying to map out Daryl’s whereabouts despite how much he struggles with direction, trying to think of where Daryl could be when he doesn’t even know where he’s _been_ for the past 2 years.

He’s nearly out the door before he glances back into the room, ready to leave and search and find despite how much it contradicts everything he normally tries to do. It’s only as he glances over his shoulder, takes a quick glance around the room to check for anything he’s missed that his eyes fall onto the phone. It’s a long shot, and Merle’s not liking the chances of hitting any type of target from the distance that’s already accumulated between him and the thing he’s trying to reach.

He walks over anyway, picks up Daryl’s discarded crossbow as he goes and tries not to take the fact that it’s still here in the first place as a bad sign. Picking up the phone is a gamble in itself, 50 on working and 50 on not, but the static variation of what is normally a clear tone is audible if not obvious and Merle takes a minute to try and remember the number for dialing the last person who phoned. 

“Hello.” Someone says on the other line, once fingers actually dared make contact with buttons and the number had been dialed.

Merle doesn’t answer for a minute, tries to work out who the voice belongs to. It’s too feminine for anyone Merle can remember, too soft for anyone any Dixon should know to sound like. He briefly wonders if Daryl found himself a piece of tail, before he remembers that the only game Daryl tends to chase is rabbits.

“Hello?” She says again, all sweetness and light type. “Can I help you?”

“That’s what I’m wondering sweetheart.” Merle says, lips curling round the endearment in a smirk, making it sound a lot more derogatory then it was even intended. “I’m looking for my brother.”

Daryl himself also cuts through the woods on his way to Pete’s.

Its dusk, and the sky’s painted an amber gold, shining its way onto spring leaves and painting them with the colors of fall. The shadows paint the bark black, throw the whole forest into contrast, gold leaves glimmering against charred wood. It makes Daryl happy, happiness tinged with the melancholy of remembrance, the reality that while the fall colors are illusions on budding spring leaves, it paints them in the colors of their death, life come full cycle in the slowly setting sun.

Daryl never liked the forest like this, shrouded in the encroaching night like it’s hiding from him, slipping through his fingers like ashes, gliding over his fingertips like water. He supposes that’s why Merle used to like it, knows too well that Merle doesn’t want to be found, doesn’t want to be splayed open enough for people to hurt more than they already have.

Pete’s trailer is no better, when Daryl finally reaches it, set aside from everything else like it’s been discarded, close enough to the outside of the clearing to topple right off the edge of it and back into insignificance. It almost makes Daryl sad, that Merle can find such sanctuary in something so precarious, that it’s the threat of feeling safe that puts Merle on edge, the possibility of adapting to something he thinks he’ll never have.

But Daryl knows it isn’t about danger, it’s about balance, and Merle’s balance has always rested precariously, always been more central when it’s clinging to the edge.

It doesn’t take long for Merle to answer when Daryl knocks, doesn’t so much invite him in as leave the door open and walk inside himself. Daryl follows, as he always does, steps into the room and shuts the door himself, takes a lingering glance around a trailer that’s near identical to Dad’s but still elicits so much change in Merle.

“No Pete?”

“Hell, Baby Brother.” Merle says, throwing himself down onto the couch and pulling his beer up to his lips. “I just got out of prison and you’re asking about Pete.”

The picture’s disturbing to Daryl, same position and same trailer and same attitude. Dad minus a few years, all laid back and arrogant with tension and temper. Daryl walks around the trailer himself, looks at the bland walls and wonders why Rick’s are so much more full, despite being just as bare, how Rick’s house can absorb happiness and laughter and play it back on repeat when all this trailer does is smother screams and soundproof suffering.

“Why are you here Merle?” Daryl asks, looking out at one of the windows towards the forest, trying to imagine what Merle sees when it’s too dark to see anything.

Merle laughs, tips his head back with his beer bottle and chugs at it, leaning back against the couch cushions and taking his time in getting to an answer. “Good behavior, let me out ea-“

“No, I mean why are you _here_?” Merle’s face contorts, lips curling down into a frown and Daryl belatedly remembers how much Merle hates interruptions at the same time he notices how that expression looks like Dad’s, how much of that character trait can be found in both of them and how deeply it runs.

“Ain’t got nowhere else to go Darleena.” Merle says, his mouth more clenched, practically forced round the rim of the bottle as he takes another swig, teeth clanking against glass and making Daryl tense. “’t’s better than ours.”

Daryl shakes his head, turns from the window to lean against the frame, trying to keep the majority of his weight on his hip rather than his back. “It’s exactly the same.”

It’s not even a lie, as much as Daryl knows Merle likes them. The trailer smells like smoke and booze, the lingering rust colored patches carrying memories of pain that Daryl will never be partial to but can definitely attest to. Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if some of the stories crafted into these walls where painted with the same brush that marked him and Merle, maybe even the same one that marked Dad.

“What stick you got stuck up your ass?” Merle spits, glaring at Daryl, spotting the truth when he sees it and not liking the sound of it from his brother’s lips, not liking the thought of something so small being allowed to bloom into anything else. Small truths amplified in frequency and volume. “Sit down, have a beer, it’ll be like old times.”

“I’m not staying.” Daryl says, looks across the room and stares into the shadow cast over Merle’s cheeks rather than his eyes.

“What do ya mean ‘you’re not staying.’?” Merle spits the phrase out like a joke, chokes off on his own laughter despite how little Daryl himself chooses to laugh. The bottle clinks to the floor, cracks against others and makes Daryl weary at the déjà vu it brings. Daryl starts to realize Merle’s probably been sat here like this for a long time. “You ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

Daryl shrugs, both to feign nonchalance and to try and elevate the tense feeling in his shoulders. “I have somewhere.”

“You can’t go back to the trailer.” Merle says, sobers emotionally if not physically, stands from where he’s sitting and walks over to Daryl. “Saw the mess of it.”

The mood swings are familiar, the drinking is familiar, the undercurrent of anger is so familiar and Daryl wishes Merle would stop, feels the tell-tale sign of wetness building in the corner of his eyes and forces it back, wishes Merle would stop looking so much like someone he isn’t, someone he was never supposed to be.

“What are you doing Merle?” It’s so quiet, fragile in the wake of earlier rowdiness and Daryl wishes the trailer didn’t echo it and make it sound do loud.

“Can’t I spend some time with my-”

“You don’t want to spend time Mer, you want to waste it.” Daryl points out, biting his lip once he’s said it to stop the tremble. It makes no small amount of impact on Daryl, that he could confront his Dad without this much emotion, that someone who evoked so much could be deserving of so little. But Merle, Merle who never caused Daryl to feel anything but contentment in feeling numb manages to bring out so damn much.

“You going all philosophical on me.” Merle says, the mirror image of kinder words spoken in a harsher setting ringing around Daryl’s head. “Think you’re better than me.”

“I’m not better then you.” Daryl says, purposefully the same because he has to know, has to see if this is what Merle’s gonna be. Another faded echo of a completed cycle, laying on scars that’re twice as deep as the one’s etched onto himself, taking every pain he ever experienced and inflicting it on others because he forgot how wrong it was to hurt. “I’m just you’re brother.”

“Don’t you damn forget it.” Merle hisses, right up in Daryl’s face, temper flaring where it once festered and so, so reminiscent of past pains.

Daryl smiles, takes a deep breath to settle the shiver that’s lodged itself into his bones, grips onto the window frame below him and tries to breathe through the molasses that tries to seep into his lungs, reminding him that the blood running through his veins is poisonous, that it can turn against him as easily as it sustains him because that’s what being a Dixon is.

“You know, you sound just like him.” He has to stop after the first part to draw in a breath, the meaning remaining resolute despite the shake that establishes itself within the words.

“Like who, little brother.” Merle’s head tilts, the title bitten out like a curse, threatening and powerful and everything Merle always told Daryl to lie about. Daryl’s too far gone for lies, and Merle’s too far gone for subtlety. 

“Dad.” Daryl says, nods his head like he needed convincing himself, like saying it settles the comparison. “That’s exactly what he said.”

Merle moves away from him, lifts both his hands to his eyes and circles around the living room, comes to a stop beyond the couch before he can bring himself to look at Daryl. He doesn’t even look hurt, he just looks angry and it makes Daryl think he may be the only Dixon left who still acknowledges pain and recognizes it as such.

“You’re on some mighty thin ice little brother.” Merle warns, stalking back up to Daryl like a predator, his movements tense and locked and ready to rip apart anything that moves when it’s under his gaze. Daryl stays carefully still.

“Least I’m not sinking.” He says, as soon as Merle’s eyes glance away from him, maintaining eye contact when they sweep back to his. Merle’s movements have slowed down where Dad’s normally speed up and Daryl welcomes the change even if everything else remains so similar.

“What the hell are you trying to say?” Merle’s enraged, walking towards him with his fists clenched at his sides, standing so close to Daryl they’re practically chest to chest and Daryl has to tilt his head up to see him.

“You wanna hit me?” Daryl asks, the tears just threatening free fall on the edge of his lashes. “Do it, what’s stopping you?”

“You’re blood.” Merle hisses, tries to flex his hands and relax them but finds it impossible to do. “You forget what that means, off wherever you are with whoever the hell’s taught you all this crap!”

“We’re blood Merle.” Daryl nods his head in acceptance, doesn’t bother to lift a hand to wipe away the tear that runs down his cheek. “What they have is _family_.”

Merle grits his teeth, tries to hold back words, maybe even punches. “There ain’t no damn difference!”

“It’s nothing but difference.” Daryl’s voice surprises himself, sounds like Maggie when she has a secret Daryl hadn’t figured out yet, when she’s telling him something he won’t realize is important until much later.

“You gone soft, baby brother?” Merle takes a step back, shakes out the clench in his fist and points the tears in Daryl’s eyes, the one that got away. “Dad finally beat the man out of you?"

“What, like he beat the brother out of you?” Daryl quips, presses himself back into the window when Merle makes to rush in. He doesn’t actually do it, takes one look at the way Daryl moves and bows his head, his mouth hanging open like he’s searching for what to say.

“You think you would’ve survived without me.” He doesn’t look at Daryl, just raises his head and looks at the window behind him. 

Daryl shakes his head. “Surviving ain’t living Mer and you ain’t doing either of them, you’re just waiting to die.”

“Bet you wouldn’t even shed a damn tear, what’s spilt blood when Darleena has family?” There’s the hurt, the anger all but evaporated.

“I got pretty used to you leaving.” Daryl says honestly, but slides form the window sill and walks towards Merle. “And the fact that you never really came back.”

Merle keep his eyes on the window and Daryl wonders if he’s thinking about hiding or contemplating being found. 

“I haven’t seen Merle in a long time.” Daryl admits, finally reaching up to wipe the tears from his eyes before any more decide to fall. He places a hand onto Merle’s bicep, meets his eyes when he looks towards him and lingers when he doesn’t immediately shove him off. “I just want my brother back.”

Merle doesn’t say anything and Daryl doesn’t think there’s anything left _to_ say.

When the silence becomes too much, and the arm under his hand grows tense Daryl let’s go and leaves, walks out into the forest and hopes Merle isn’t too lost, isn’t wandering through the night, ignoring the hands that try to reach him and thinking there’s no hope of being found.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single person who has continued to comment, kudos and bookmark this story, I've had such lovely feedback and I'm glad you all like this enough to say so! :)
> 
> This chapter is the longest one yet, mainly because it fits two segments together! I'm terribly sorry if it seems a bit choppy, but I need Lori to be in this chapter as much as I needed her resolved as a character, I needed to move onto the Rickyl, and though Shane will be reappearing I needed to tie Lori's story line up! I also didn't write her as mean as I could have, although I never raved about her much as a character, I don't think she'd be hurtful towards someone who's so obviously been hurt previously! I'm sorry if anyone dislikes it, but I'm trying my best to move this in the direction it should be going in! 
> 
> I hope you can all enjoy the length of it, if nothing else! Thank you! :)

Daryl feels ridiculously shitty about getting back so late. Strolling up to Rick’s door while the moon illuminates the hallway, casting abstract shadows onto already shadowed ground. He feels exhausted, and it’s deeper than physical, more tangible then mental, all-consuming and everywhere, sinking into Daryl like liquid metal and setting his limbs like statues.

It’d taken Daryl a long time to get home, having to walk back through the darkened forest and disregard his hatred for something that looked so dead when it should feel so alive. Every stumbled step felt like a barrier, each unsteady movement a warning, to turn back and apologize, beg the person who had only ever loved him and protected him with lies to take him back, not hate him for spitting out words as acerbic as the truth.

It was always Merle and Daryl, even when Merle wasn’t there. Merle would leave and Daryl would wait, wait and wait for him to come back and shout at him, beat at him, ruffle his hair and run through the forest. Everything they ever did was animalistic, survival and ferocity. Merle would rub at Daryl’s hair like he didn’t know how to move that way, like his hands where naturally unable to hold any kindness within their clutch.

Their hits split skin like claws, their teeth snapped words like snapping bone, their legs ran like it was live or die, and a lot of the time it was.

The emotions are cut, left behind in the wake of too much sadness, disregarded because they weren’t understood, weren’t needed. It leaves behind nothing but action and reaction, painful and hurtful and unrecognized, plenty to feel it but nothing to register it, reflex reactions numbed by feeling and exploited by mindless fear.

Rick stitched all of Daryl’s back together, set up stations with Maggie and Hershel and worked until Daryl himself could.

Merle doesn’t have anyone, and Daryl can’t help fix him when he hasn’t yet fixed himself.

The guilt ricochets through every knock, heavy fist thumping onto the door, half hoping that Rick’s a heavy enough sleeper to not notice it, leave Daryl out here where he belongs without leaving him with nowhere to go.

Rick opens the door like he was waiting to, hair falling to either side of his forehead and shirt three buttons undone. There’s a bead of sweat running down his collarbone, and Daryl focuses on it simply because he doesn’t want to be looking Rick in the eyes right now, see concern, or worry, or disapproval.

He’s not sure whether care or condemnation would be more accepted right now.

An arm winds around his lower back, leads him into the apartment and through to the kitchen, settles him into one of the bar stools and let’s go of him as easily as it had reached for him. Rick crouches down in front of him, moves a section of his bangs to the side, dabbing a gentle hand onto the cut over his forehead. It’s the one Dad left behind, and Daryl knew Merle had left no marks of his own, none that Rick could find with the type of gentle curiosity he was using.

When his hand comes away dry, Rick lowers it completely, but doesn’t move from his crouched position, even as his leg begins to cramp. Daryl isn’t looking at him, is staring at an irrelevant part of the far wall, but Rick still thinks he’d prefer the option of looking down to Rick rather than looking up at him, at least right now.

“Are you okay?” 

“Nothing happened.” Daryl tries to make it sound believable, because as much as it seems like his whole relationship with his brother just accumulated into argument and disintegrated into nothing, it hasn’t changed anything.

“But are you okay?” Rick says, shifts forward slightly so he can look up through Daryl’s hair.

Daryl nods and Rick see’s the evasion of it more than the clarification. “Yeah.”

“What about here?” Rick taps his head with his middle finger, pulls it free of tangled curls and drags a few loose hairs along with him.

Daryl’s eyes narrow beneath his hair, but Rick couldn’t hope to see them through the shadows that shield them. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Hey.” Rick says, ducks his head under Daryl’s until he can look into his eyes, moving with them as they flicker. “There doesn’t have to be, sometimes things just get a little unbalanced.”

“I’m fine.” Daryl says, lets out a breath of air that ruffles Rick’s loose curls, shrugs his shoulder and does it again. “Just a little-"

“Panicked?”

“I don’t know why.”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason.” Rick makes it clear, doesn’t want Daryl to be searching round in something that’s already unsteady trying to settle it. “Even the steadiest people stumble.”

Daryl brushes his hair back from his face, tucks it behind his ear ever though he hates it feeling so precarious. The room feels hot, almost sweltering and Daryl undoes the first button of his own shirt to try and combat it. Pete’s house had felt freezing, and Daryl wonders if the extreme opposites of it all are trying to tell him he doesn’t belong at either. That he’ll freeze in one and burn in the other and things like comfort will never factor into it.

Rick stands, stretches his hands over his shoulders in a way that exposes a sliver of skin below his grey shirt, lets the moonlight caress the white of his skin as much as the light grey fabric, and the brightness of the whole picture makes Daryl feels dark, removed from the spotlight and unworthy of the illumination.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” He asks, hands settling onto his hips, fingertips blocking the moonlight from his skin and shrouding them in shadow. It makes Daryl feels better, like he has the right to notice.

“I haven’t had tea in years.” He can’t quite remember what it tastes like either, whether he even liked it when he could.

Rick smiles at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He moves over to the kettle, stifling a yawn as he does so and that’s when Daryl realizes that he’s wearing the same clothes he’d been in before he left, that despite the new creases folding over each other in their haste to mar what is usually pristine fabric and the buttons laying open where they had once been closed Rick looks like he hasn’t even changed for bed.

“Did you even go to sleep?” Daryl asks, turning around to be facing Rick, placing his crossed arms on the bar in front of him.

“No.” Rick says it around another yawn, shrugging his shoulders to combat it but still doing an overall bad job of convincing Daryl he isn’t tired. It makes Daryl feel even worse than he had when he thought he'd woken him up, because Rick’s already stressed out without Daryl there to add to it needlessly. Rick has to be there for his family and family comes first. Daryl doesn’t count in that, no room for bad blood in something so beautiful.

“Why not?” he asks, his own exhaustion hitting him full force as he does, making the words sound so damn sad that Rick turns around to check he isn’t crying.

“I was waiting for you to get back.” Rick answers, like it’s so damn obvious, like Daryl should’ve been expecting someone who’s still yet to work out everything that’s fundamentally wrong with him to remain resolute in thinking he’s worth the trouble. Daryl feels like telling him, fragile words like _‘you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into’_ , or _‘leave while you don’t want to so I don’t have to see the moment you do’_. The words don’t pass his lips, stick like truth used to and Daryl clings to Rick’s selflessness with selfish abandon.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Daryl says, taking the steaming cup Rick offers to him, relishing the gentle burn that laps at his skin like flames.

Rick pulls his own towards his lips, licks them once he lowers it, catches a stray droplet clinging to the edge of his mouth. “I’ve gone many a night without sleep for stupider, more selfish reasons.”

“What if I hadn’t come back?” Daryl challenges, hating the words so much that he takes a drink of the tea while it’s still too hot, lets it burn his mouth and erase any more misplaced thoughts lining up to fall from unsteady lips.

“You said you would.” Rick says, shrugging like that’s all there is too it.

“And you took my word for it?” Daryl asks, unbelieving, knowing that his word’s worth jack shit no matter the level of trust Rick balances on top of them, giving them a meaning that no one else ever took the time to think through.

“Yeah.”

“Weren’t a very good idea.” Daryl says, takes another drink and holds it against his tongue.

“You’re here.” Rick argues, pointing at Daryl in all the ways that aren’t quite physical. “I’d say I judged you very well.”

Judgement’s never sounded that positive to Daryl before, usual carries consequences and retribution that could be deserved as easily as they weren’t. He supposes Rick’s just too divine, too otherworldly to punish Daryl for the way he is, for being more akin to calamity then creation, responsible for more destruction then construction. Everything Rick Grimes touches turns to gold but Daryl supposes he was too much like dust to begin with, no fine threads to pull together and weave into something substantial, not like he'd hoped.

“How was he?” Rick asks, still leaning back against the counter, holding his own cup by the handle, avoiding the warmth rather than relishing in it.

“A mess.” Daryl says honestly, his web of lies long since unraveled. “That’s pretty much the usual though.”

“Is he okay?” That Rick’s concern can stretch not only towards Daryl, but in a direction that completely contrasts him is amazing, manages to pull a sad little smile onto Daryl’s lips.

“I couldn’t tell.” Daryl sighs, brings a hand up to his eye and rolls the back of his wrist against it. “I can’t remember what Merle looks like when he’s okay.”

Rick stares at him for a moment, contemplating the risk of what he wants to ask next, whether risking Daryl’s anger is worth evading the confusion. “Did he say something to you?”

“Nothing I ain’t heard before.” Daryl doesn’t blow up, doesn’t panic like he had the last time Rick took a risk that turned out to be a little too reckless. Rick’s actually quite sad that he doesn’t, because the pure resignation in his voice and every aspect of his body language seems worse.

“Carl’s coming over tomorrow.” He says, for nothing but changing the subject and influencing the atmosphere.

Daryl looks over to him. “Thought you had him on the weekends.”

“Easter break.”

“Ain’t that next week.” Daryl’s brow furrows, causing the hair he had moved away earlier to fall over his forehead again, layering itself over his eyes and throwing shadows over sharp cheekbones.

Rick shrugs, puts his empty mug in the sink beside him. “Theirs is a little different.”

“You picking him up?” Daryl asks, tentatively anticipating another road trip after the last one didn’t turn out completely awful. He was looking forward to seeing the kid again in general actually, remembers a sad little frown reflected at him in the wing mirror of Rick’s car and is just about ready to see another smile replace it.

“Lori’s dropping him off.” Rick answers, looks of to the side as he says it.

“Your wife.” Rick’s eyes look back to him, his eyebrows raising in time with his shoulders.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I haven’t told her that you’re here though.”

“That a problem?” Daryl asks, ignoring the slight ricochet of old hurts at the revelation that Rick knew better than to tell his wife someone like Daryl was around her kid. Daryl couldn’t even blame him, ‘cause he only wanted to keep everyone happy, only wanted to help those that deserved it along with those who didn’t.

“She might not like it.” Rick admits, sounding as defeated as Daryl feels.

“’s understandable, man.”

“It’s not you.” Rick hurries to say, practically leans off of the counter in his urgency to make Daryl believe that. “Not really.”

“How the hell is it not me?” It works its way from Daryl’s lungs like air, sounds like an exhale with substance and not much else.

“I told her about…” Rick trails off, because he’s never actually spoken about what happened all those weeks ago, not to Daryl, not in front of Daryl. It still feels too fresh, and the humiliation that often stained Daryl’s cheeks for weeks to follow was bright enough that Rick doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it easily. “After the test.”

“So what?” Daryl says, eyes just this side of too wet and words coming out like humor and apathy rolled into one. “You’re wife thinks I’m a massive whore and doesn’t want me around her kid?”

Rick shakes his head, moves forward towards the bar and sits down opposite Daryl. “She doesn’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” Daryl says, and he should be angry but he just feels unbearably disappointed. Not at Rick, but himself. Rick had every right to tell his wife about some boy offering him sex for a damn pass, but Daryl didn’t have the slightest bit of decorum to think that giving up something like that was wrong. “She has the right idea already!”

“Hey. Don’t say that about yourself.” Rick’s practically lying on the bar in his effort to drive that point home, looking as angry as Daryl’s ever seen him, anger directed at Daryl’s opinion of himself rather than the actions that should have caused it. “I want you here, Carl want’s you here.”

“But she doesn’t!” Daryl hisses, trying to get Rick to understand why that’s so damn important to him, why the opinion of someone he’s never even met means more than his own happiness.

“This house is more yours then hers.” Rick shifts back into his seat, places both hands flat on the table. “She can’t kick you out of it.”

“She could stop you from seeing Car-”

“She wouldn’t, she made me a promise.” Rick interrupts him like Hershel does, and Daryl starts to wonder when he got so accepting of it, before he realizes exactly who isn’t and everything that means.

“Promises don’t mean shit Rick!” He says instead, rubbing a hand across both of his temples and down to his lips so he could chew on it.

“I’ll sort it. And you, me and Carl, we’re gonna have a damn good Easter.” He reaches forward, gently tugs Daryl’s wrist away from his mouth and places it onto the bar. “Promises make up family Daryl.”

He says it all like Daryl’s included, puts his name first in the list like he’s done something to earn pride of place. Wraps his lips round family like he’s giving it as a gift, labeling Easter as the holiday like he want’s Daryl to be there, like he doesn’t just want Daryl to sit in a room so he can enjoy the time with his son. It stops Daryl’s protest, because Rick’s talking like he had this planned out long before he told Daryl about it, like he was working out how to handle it from the start so Daryl didn’t have to.

“Why do you still wear your wedding ring?” Daryl asks suddenly, the partially obscured moon still letting out enough light to shine against this silver as well.

“Sentiment.” Rick says honestly, bringing his hand up to fiddle with the ring like he honestly forgot it was there. “I’m used to wearing it.”

Daryl watches him play with the ring, studies the way it fits snugly up to the knuckle, where it gets tight. Rick keeps sliding it over the knuckle and back onto his finger, looking like he’s going to remove it every time he slides it up before resettling it at the base of his finger and starting again. Daryl wonders if he’s contemplating removing it, or whether he’s just struggling to remember the significance of keeping it on.

“Why do you still look at me like that?” Rick asks, ring softly nestled onto his finger and arms crossed in front of him, hiding the ring from sight and light.

“Like what?” Daryl asks, hoping Rick is being vague and not specific to a moment ago.

“Like you’re surprised every time I’m here.” Rick answers, and even though that question isn’t any better it’s one he can answer.

“Sentiment.” Daryl says, shrugs. “I’m used to being alone.”

“You’re not alone now.” Rick says, ring safely tucked out of sight and eyes firmly fixed on Daryl. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lori arrives at 10am the next morning and Daryl even took the time to have a shower so he didn’t smell like whatever smoked substance had been wafting around Pete’s trailer. That and because the sickly feeling of Merle’s apparent imperviousness to any of Daryl’s words still lingered in his mind, and the hope of steady noise, the feel of water droplets falling over his ears and singing like Rick’s sympathy, always managed to calm him.

Daryl doesn’t know what to expect when Rick opens the door, can only re-enunciate all the things Rick had encouraged him with this morning, that he wasn’t guilty of anything, that he wasn’t standing trial, that no matter what she said she wasn’t disregarding him as a person so much as worrying for her child around a person she does not know, that sometimes being a mother painted someone in a bad light to those who don’t know the feel of it. Most of all, that she wasn’t intentionally discourteous to him, it was just the fact that common courtesy seemed irrelevant in the face of the continued protection of Carl.

And, most importantly, that Daryl had every right to be here, that he was completely worthy of being around Carl and that Lori would be able to see that once the shroud of safety lowered enough to see reason.

When Rick does open the door, Daryl’s struck with the instant realisation that Lori’s a beautiful women, model thin and elegant with her hair swept into a low hanging, side swept bun. She has delicate features, the type that catch the light like she’s perpetually wearing enhancement makeup even though it looks like she has none on. Her and Rick must’ve been a beautiful couple and Daryl’s positive that Carl will grow out of cute and straight into handsome if this is the gene pool he’s been blessed with.

Daryl’s never felt so insignificant in all his life, and he’s never even given a fuck about the way he looks.

“Lori.” Rick says, a kind smile sent her way and Daryl thinks the guy must be a saint because how else could he look at the women who cheated on him so nicely.

“Hi Rick.” She smiles back at him, glances to Daryl and although her smile doesn’t drop, the temperature of the room feels like it does. “Carl’s just coming up, he’s got Lacy.”

“Well come in for now, we’ll leave the door open for him.” Rick says, moving aside from the doorway and either intentionally or unintentionally exposing Daryl to Lori completely. Lori walks in, slips her coat of and Daryl wonders how the hell someone’s collar bones can be that pronounced before he realizes she’s walking straight up to him and his thoughts take a dramatic turn to several different expletives.

She holds out a hand, smiles like she means it even if Daryl can’t be quite sure. “You must be Da-”

“Daryl!” Carl says, running over to him and then straight into him, forcing Daryl back a few steps despite the kid being such a gangly slip of a thing.

“Kiddo, are you seriously not gonna say hi to your daddy first?” Daryl asks, using one hand to ruffle Carl’s hair and the other to awkwardly shake Lori’s hand while it’s still partially outstretched.

“I talk to Dad all the time, I haven’t seen you in ages!” Carl whines, pulling back from his grip around Daryl’s waist to smile up at him.

“Say hi to your Daddy.” Daryl says, pushes him in the direction of Rick so he can talk to him. When he looks back to her, Lori's smiling at him, all bright and beautiful and Daryl tries his best to smile back even though it feels like more of a grimace. She doesn’t make a move to talk to him, alternates between watching Carl with Rick and looking back to Daryl.

“Lori.” Rick says, fastening the leash to Lacy’s collar and tightening it when he decides it’s a little bit too loose. “Carl wants to take Lacy for a walk with Daryl.”

Daryl expects her to say no, to be unwilling to leave her child with him, the redneck whore with the drugged up family, all dysfunction and danger and all the things such an obviously loving parent could never want around her kid.

Lori just smiles at Daryl, leaning down to hug Carl and moving back towards the apartment slightly. “That’s a great idea, I’ll probably be heading back soon anyway.”

“Daryl, do you mind going?” Rick says, before Daryl’s shock can even process properly. “Carl specifically asked for you and Lacy’s been in the car a long time.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Daryl says, following Carl out of the door and down the corridor before either of them decide it’s a bad idea, trying to keep his breathing steady and his lungs unrestricted and confused as to why he even feels like this when nothing actually went wrong. He pushes it to the back of his head, focuses on catching up to Carl, figures, just like he did with Rick, that the least he can do for Lori is makes sure her kid doesn’t die.

When they’re both out of earshot Rick turns to Lori, watching her lean against the counter slightly and smile to him when he walks over to her. Rick tries to fathom out why she didn’t say anything, why she was so eager to let Daryl go with Carl. He’s known Lori more than half his life, and her trust usually comes with a long conversation, conversations that offend more people than not. 

“Carl really likes him.” She says, her smile shining so bright it flashes immaculately white teeth. Rick tries to smile back, knows it’s probably the dimmest thing in the poorly lit corridor compared to her own.

“I know?” He says it like a question, not wanting to accept something as a straightforward answer when it might not have been meant as such, despite that, not being shouted at as soon as Daryl and Carl stepped through the door certainly helped eliminate some of his tension. 

“That’s more than enough for me to like him.” She continues, leaning back into the counter a little further to give herself some more space. “I just wanted to ask a few things, nothing specific to him, it’s just… you know how much I worry.”

“Of course I do, he was expecting you to interrogate him.” Rick says, hoping an attempt at humor isn’t pushing the boat out to far to pull it back if the waters end up too choppy.

“I bet he did.” Lori laughs, speaking like she always used to, like she’s regained a part of herself in the divorce that neither of them completely realized was missing.

“So does he smoke, drink?” She asks, and Rick tenses slightly at where the questions are going, supposing it’s inevitable that someone would assume that, even more inevitable that they’d usually be right.

“Not as much as he used to, and he wouldn’t smoke around Carl, he wouldn’t smoke around any child.” Rick hurries to say, hoping that telling the truth will be more beneficially then outright lying, that maybe the feel of minimal approval towards Daryl bought on by the truth would feel better then complete approval based on nothing but lies.

“You know I used to smoke a lot when I was younger and we both know I only stopped because I got pregnant.” Lori says, smiling indulgently at Rick like she can read all of his thoughts. “I’m not asking these because of him and I mean that honestly, I just like to know.”

Rick nods, takes a deep breath and forces himself to accept her as she’s presenting herself, that everything he told Daryl was right, that she wasn’t thinking about Daryl like he was nothing more than a redneck. Unsurprisingly, trying his best to trust her feels easier then forcing himself to be wary and Rick reminds himself that he was married to this women for 15 years, that nothing she says now will be surprising or something he can’t handle.

He knows her suspicion as well as her trust, knows she has a bad streak like everyone else but her heart always aims to stay in the right place.

“Drugs?” She asks, still smiling in contradiction to her statements.

“Not really, he always says that it’s his brother’s thing.”

“Not really?”

“He mentioned it one, offhandedly.” He shrugs, looks up to her expectant eyes and continues regardless of his budding discomfort at the topic. “He said he must have been about 8 and some of his brother’s friends went round and put something in his drink. Said they thought it was hilarious right up until Merle, his brother, realized what they’d done, had to nurse him through the come down. He said he never knew what it was, but he wasn’t ‘stupid’ enough to try again after the first time.”

He brings a hand up to his eyes, digs his forefinger and thumb into the corners.

“He said it like it was his fault.” Rick says, not aiming for sympathy so much as acceptance. “When I questioned that, he said he ‘should’ve known better.” He shrugs, hopes it doesn’t come off as indifference when it’s anything but. “He was 8.” Rick says, something in his voice sounding like rain, like sympathy, like everything Daryl always associates him as.

“And he thought he should’ve known better.” Lori says, nodding her head and frowning, looking towards the door of the apartment like she’s willing Daryl to walk through it. Rick knows from her body language that she wouldn’t do anything rash, if anything she’d just give him a hug.

“So he’s the one who-” Lori starts, stepping forward from the counter as Rick sits down at the bar.

“Don’t just characterize him as that please.” Rick says, earnestly as he can, hoping beyond hope that Lori remains compassionate enough in that regard to see what Rick himself does.

“I wasn’t going to, I just wanted to know.” Lori says, holding up slight hands and establishing peace again before it can tip into disagreement. “I trust your judgement Rick, I was just worried.”

“Are you still worried?” Rick asks, unbelieving that even after all Rick’s told her she could still worry that Daryl is, in any way, a danger to Carl.

Lori shrugs, looking as helpless at her perpetual worry as Rick always used to feel. “He offered you sex.”

“And came into my classroom black and blue the next day.” Rick argues softly, painfully, the memory of it as sad as the day it happened. “People like Daryl, they don’t beg like that without good reason.”

“Is that why the…” She motions to her own face, above her eyebrow, miming out the positioning of the cut of Daryl’s forehead.

“Found him on the front step of the building, bled all over my couch.” Rick says, rubs a hand over his eyes to try and erase the mental picture before it fully forms.

“Who’s doing that to him?”

“I don’t know.” Rick shrugs, the reminder of his own helplessness a bitter one. “Every time I’ve pushed the issue he’s been hurt.”

Lori bites at her lip, looks almost tentative to say anything. “Are you sure he wouldn’t influence Carl or anything like that?"

“He knows it’s wrong, he just couldn’t accept that it was wrong when it was being done to him.” Rick chooses every word carefully, tries to solidify her belief in Daryl as Carol had his own. “He thought, might still think that the deciding factor between right and wrong is whether it’s being done to _him_.”

“His family then.” Lori guesses, answering her own question from earlier. “Learnt behavior based off of continues abuse.” 

“Probably.” Rick says, because as scripted as it sounds it’s probably right.

“Then this is good for him.” Lori decides, smiling at Rick like she never thought anything different, like worry never clouded her judgement. “I’m not that much of a bitch Rick.”

“I know you aren’t.” Rick says, smiling back at her. “You’re not the only one who worries.”

“Worrying works.” She decides, after a moment's contemplation. “That’s why everything will be okay.”

Even after Lori’s left Rick alone in the building, the lingering feel to her words comforts him, makes him feel like ‘okay’ is already on its way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to clarify that the little story Rick knows about Daryl will have been something offhandedly mentioned earlier on this day, probably because Daryl would have assumed she would ask about it and wanted Rick to know! Thank you :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to support this story! I love reading all the comments and seeing the kudos and bookmarks, so thank you for every single one! We're now over 8000 hits, which is amazing!
> 
> Two things to note about this chapter - One is a WARNING for something that can class as self harm, it's only the discussion of it and it's intended more as a method of controlling a panic attack rather then the actual harm, but it is there! The other is just to clarify that when I say 'I didn't really have a reason' in reference to panic attack, I don't mean that anxiety itself is not a reason, just that it's not specific to one thing as others can be! Once again, I'm going of friend experiences so I tried my best! :)

Daryl and Carl get back to the apartment while Rick’s making food.

He’s making waffles again and Daryl can’t help smiling. Carl rushes up to help, forgetting to un-clip Lacy’s lead (as Daryl is beginning to realize he often does) as he goes. Daryl leans down for him, runs a partially trembling hand over Lacy’s fur, stepping away as soon as she’s freed, almost fearing that being in close proximity to a dog will somehow solidify its death.

Lacy just looks up at him, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth and tail wagging from side to side expectantly. Daryl’s never been good at resisting temptations he’d be better of avoiding, so crouching down to scratch at her neck is inevitable. She laps at his face, her tongue catching slightly on the steadily healing cut on his forehead and even though it’s probably unsanitary Daryl can’t help but think such a caring touch from something that receives nothing from giving it is the most healing thing he can imagine.

When he glances up, Rick’s looking at him, setting a plate of waffles down on the breakfast bar. His smile reminds Daryl of Merle when he got drunk enough to care without inhibition and the fact that he can look more caring then his brother, even when sober enough to know who he’s aiming it at, makes the smile Daryl sends back at him one of the biggest Daryl can ever remember showing.

The muscles in his face stretch to accomplish it and the ache that settles in them, so stiff from being misused, feels like the joy of participation, the inclusion in something he’s only ever been allowed to witness on other people’s faces, in other people’s lives.

Rick pats a hand onto the table, encouraging Daryl to sit beside Carl and opposite himself as he sets two more plates down onto the table.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Rick asks, passing some blueberry’s over to Carl, scooping some onto his plate for him when Carl refuses to do it himself. “You got back late.”

“Where did you go?” Carl interrupts, before Daryl can answer Rick’s question.

“Went to see my brother.” Daryl says to Carl, looking back to Rick as he does. “Weren’t that late, I’m fine.”

“The one in jail!” Carl says, pulling his knees underneath him on the stool and leaning forward over his plate.

“Mmhmm.” Hummed round a mouthful of waffle.

“You went to the prison!” He pushes even further over his plate, and Rick has to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him toppling into the syrup. Rick himself is looking at Daryl, surreptitiously studying ever reaction for signs of offence, sadness, just about anything negative. “You should’ve taken me with you.”

“Carl.” Rick admonishes, nudging him further back into his seat.

It isn’t that Daryl looks sad, it’s more that he looks to be walking that fiber thin line between offence and defense. While Rick knows Daryl would never do anything to hurt Carl, and he’d never do anything to prevent Carl’s innocent curiosity from hurting _him_ , the father in Rick calls for prevention, to settle a dispute that will likely never even happen. Daryl looks at him gratefully, but shakes his head slightly and Rick wonders if he’s used to shutting every feeling he has down for the sake of preserving other people's.

“He’s out kid.” Daryl says, looks at Carl while his lips pull into a smile that’s deceptively steady. There’s a tremble there, just slightly, like the shake in Daryl’s hand, touching Lacy like it meant more than small satisfaction. “And Prisons ain’t as fun as you think they are.”

“Can I meet him anyway?” Carl continues, childish naivety completely immune to Daryl’s discomfort. Rick would say something, but he isn’t sure Daryl’s aware of how uncomfortable he looks, thinks maybe there’s more innocent hidden behind careful sophistication then he realized. “Your brother.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, kiddo.” Daryl says, shaking his head in Rick’s direction again when he goes to intervene.

“Why not?” 

“He’s not himself.” 

In all honesty, the conversation makes Daryl feel uncomfortable in the same way that it settles him. Merle had left him rattled, seeing his brother so shattered, cracked when he was the only one who ever seemed whole and Daryl starts to think the whole Dixon family is looking into a room of shattered mirrors, cutting each other to pieces trying to find the one that isn’t broken. They’re everything the light doesn’t touch, belonging to the night and wishing for the day, a pitch black sky, the stars blown out and falling. 

Daryl doesn’t know if he can help Merle anymore. Not with his tightrope all but settled and his feet so close to the ground. He almost wishes he never tried to get down, that he stayed high flying and oblivious, kept everything shrouded and unfocused because he’s placed himself too far away to feel it. He remembers Merle’s company, how it hadn’t felt like family so much as dedication, it almost makes him want to go back to him, curl up like baby birds in a nest and be brothers again, belong to the forest and stay safe in the air until they’re ready to fly, act like falling isn’t a possibility.

It’s almost worth undoing the revelations, unlearning all that he tried so hard to know, just to have the shield of naivety again, the forced feel of hand me down innocence that couldn’t get them away so much as move them aside, avert their attention to the hardships of others and warn them away from acknowledging their own.

Broken mirrors and blackened skies. It reminds him of Mom’s glass cabinet, the one that used to shine just enough to distort your reflection back at you, the way it smashed and shattered under Daryl’s weight, _‘I tripped over my crossbow’_ echoing around the room like glass shards, _‘stay away and get back’_. It’s like stolen moments of walking in the woods, sleepy eyes creating monsters out of shadows, keeping an eye on Merle because he so liked to loose himself in the caress of the dark and Daryl couldn’t hope to find him when he’s already so lost.

Merle always loved the dark, Daryl always strived for the light and he supposes that’s why Merle’s content to be cast out and Daryl’s so desperate to be taken in. Shadows can’t fall on family, they don’t dare settle on love.

You can’t be that dark, not next to something so illuminated. Still Daryl can’t help but think he must cast shadows on others, force other people into the dark by standing too close to the light source. The light can only shine on him, not through him and Daryl glad that everything that should never see the light of day is carefully kept inside.

“Do you have any other family?” Carl asks, once Rick’s gaze had left him and unfrozen him from his silence.

“I had a few uncles, my mom.” Daryl says, shrugging a shoulder and trying to finish his food quickly when he realises everyone else is done. “Not anymore.”

“What about your Dad?” Daryl tenses up slightly, and he’s sure he can see Rick throw Carl a look from beneath his bangs. He shakes his head, pushes his plate aside and runs a hand through the back of his hair.

“He’s alive.” Daryl says it slowly, gently, reminding himself that Carl doesn’t know, that Carl not knowing is a good thing, to preserve the childhood that’s ever so precious but just as fleeting. “Just about.”

“Can I meet him?”

“Carl, stop it.” Rick says, harsher then he had previously, looking at Daryl as he says it.

Carl looks towards Daryl as well and maybe it’s the fact that Daryl can’t even meet his eyes that clues him in on the unwelcome conversation. The kid looks crushed, and that’s exactly what Daryl wanted to avoid. I makes him feel like his Dad, and maybe talking the way he had to Merle was hypocritical when he was obviously no better.

Carl looks down to his plate, looks up at Daryl through his unruly hair. “Sorry Daryl.”

“It’s okay kid.” Daryl says, letting out the breath that had been holding itself in his lungs, like an air bag waiting for impact. “My family just ain’t the type of people you want around kids.”

“I’m not a kid.” Carl huffs, the release of air blowing his fringe out of his eyes.

Daryl’s lips curl ever so slightly. “Don’t want ‘em round baby goats either.”

Carl sits quietly for a minute, and Rick sends Daryl the most apologetic look of gratitude imaginable, almost opening his mouth to say something but looking like whatever internal debate he was having over what to say unceremoniously gave out.

“Would it be like the dog?” Carl asks suddenly and Daryl’s honestly surprised he can remember that story when it wasn’t even told.

“Yeah.” Daryl’s honesty rings through the room like he broadcast it from a bell tower. “Like the dog.”

Rick stands from the table, picking up the plates and depositing them into the sink. He turns around, stares at the wall for a long time and Daryl wonders if he sees as many things as Daryl does in blankness, whether the memories of family print themselves on the wall like photographs, family portraits that aren’t full off false faces and landscapes that shine in the light of day. Rick looks to him, just briefly, a fractional second of understanding enough to decode each other completely.

“Carl, how about you phone up Adam, see if you can go over?” Rick says, ignoring the disbelieving look Daryl sends him completely.

“I just got here!” Carl complains, eyes flickering between the two of them like he knows he’s missed something.

“It’s Spring break.” Rick argues. “You can go have fun with your friends.”

Carl relents, looks down to his hands and drops one down to Lacy. “But what if Daryl’s not here when I get back.”

“He’ll be here.” Rick says, sounding surer then Daryl could ever hope to be. “We’ll both be right here.”

“I ain’t going nowhere, Baby Goat.” Daryl says, when Carl still doesn’t move from his seat.

“Okay.” He gets up, heads over to the lounge to phone whoever the hell ‘Adam’ is and Daryl rounds on Rick before he’s even settled on the couch. Daryl takes a step closer towards Rick, tries to close the distance his words have to travel so he can make them as quiet as they possibly can be while still being heard. Rick looks at him evenly, and from this distance, probably the closest they’ve ever been, Daryl notices the fine grey hairs just beginning to speckle his stubble.

“What are you doing?” He says, so under his breath it’s more air then words.

Rick shrugs, lifts a hand to run it through his hair and just barely brushes the front of Daryl’s shirt. “You’re uncomfortable.

“He’s your son.” Daryl says, whisper soft but twice as inflicted as the last.

His brows furrows, almost looking hurt that Daryl felt he needed to point that out. “I know that.”

“Then he matters more than me!” Daryl moves his own hand towards his chest so harshly it makes Rick wince, taking a hold of his wrist and encouraging it to move back towards his side.

“Right now, your whole morning has been commandeered to my family’s happiness.” Rick leans down slightly, bringing himself eye to eye with Daryl and funnily enough it’s the same time Daryl realizes they’re the same height. “Yours has been irrelevant.” 

“Because theirs is more important.” Full of conviction yet sounding too scripted to have been his opinion.

Rick shakes his head. “Bullshit.”

“What?”

“No one’s happiness is more important than anyone else’s.” Rick tries to turn away, but Daryl catches the edge of his sleeve in hand.

“They’re your family.” He says, unintentionally pulling against the fold of Rick’s shirt while he does.

“And they’re happy, they’re safe.” Rick smiles at him, moves his arm gently out of Daryl’s grasp. “Making sure you are as well won’t undo that.”

Rick walks through into the living room, picks his keys up from the counter as he goes. Daryl follows him, expecting to see Carl looking as upset as he did minutes ago, preparing himself to push his usual indifference firmly to the back of his head and tell Rick that he shouldn’t be sending Carl to a friend’s house just to make him comfortable. When he does see Carl, he looks anything but upset, chatting on the phone excitedly and making hand motions to his Dad that Daryl couldn’t begin to fathom.

Daryl knows that type of quick fix happiness would’ve never been possible to him, he didn’t have the friends, the acceptable phone connection or the father that evidently knows him better then he would himself. He doesn’t begrudge Carl, but he realizes this uneven and almost impassable road to something approaching contentment may have been easier if his emotions were as fluid as Carl’s own. If they ran like water rather than tumbling like stone.

“Dad!” Carl says when he sees him, holding his hand over the receiver like it’ll block such a loud shout. “Adam has the PS4!”

“Does he now?” Rick says, standing from where he’d been pulling on his boots and winking in Daryl’s direction. “Well tell Adam you’ll be there in ten minutes and let’s go.”

Carl pulls the phone to his ear and runs into his room for what Daryl presumes must be a clean shirt. Rick walks over to Daryl, passes him his own boots and waits for him to tug them on, what Daryl thinks must be an unofficial order to come with them. 

“He never thinks he wants to go to his friends’ houses.” Rick says, leaning slightly closer to Daryl’s ear. “When he gets there he doesn’t want to leave.”

Daryl shakes his head, looks up at Rick from the corner of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Rick circles round in front of him and the motion feels more like a ballroom then a shark tank. “You were right to question.”

“You’re a good Dad.” Daryl says, smile pulling tighter when he sees Carl struggling from his bedroom with the phone to his ear and the shirt halfway round his head. 

“I’ve been told.” He says, smiling so brightly it almost stops Daryl in his tracks, the smile that curls his own lips bending round a scoff. 

Rick catches Carl on his way past, moves the phone to his other ear so he can tug his shirt down into place. It speaks of time, the motion of it, as fluent in this as he had been in reassuring Daryl, the twists and twirls of dance in a ballroom, the elegant ability to balance and perfect every single movement. Daryl’s own words echo through his head like music, an accompaniment to the scene that fits better than any orchestra.

_‘You’re a good Dad.’_

Getting them into the car is less graceful, Carl being as unwilling to let go of the phone as he was to stay in the apartment. Rick manages it anyway, elegance where there is none to be found, as practiced in fighting battles as he is in letting them play out and molding them to his advantage. 

Daryl sits in the front of the car and with Carl occupied in talking to his Dad he’s somewhat disappointingly free to stare out of the window and watch the world pass him by. There should be something philosophical in that, some clever play on words or deep emotional connection to be found from feeling that sting of insignificance, but Daryl’s pretty sure the world’s been passing him by like that his entire life and even as it continues to do so now it feels like it’s going slower than it ever has. 

The car slows as they pull onto another street and Daryl looks round to see terrace houses, the type you see in soap operas and romance films. They’re pretty, little allocated gardens to go along with little allocated lives, neighbors talking over their dividing walls, courteous but contained. A few kids on bikes ride past and Daryl can almost see the vague silhouette of a boy following after them, always running as fast as he could but still unable to keep up. He doesn’t think these houses would burn anyway, not with friends at either side who cared about the safety of those inside.

Rick pulls up next to a section of the terrace, this particular carbon copy complete with a dark green door. Daryl belatedly thinks that he’d paint a door that color to, if he had the opportunity, to remind him of sanctuary every time he walked forward into confinement.

“I’ll see you later Daryl?” Carl says, and the obvious query of it hurts Daryl’s heart.

“We’ll be here kid.” He says, looking to Rick for the reassurance.

“We’ll be here.” Rick echos, looking back to watch Carl as he gets out of the car, checking for any cars coming on the road.

“Bye Dad, bye Daryl!” Carl says, after running round to Daryl’s side of the car and stopping by the open window.

“Bye Carl.”

“See you later Baby Goat.” 

They watch until he’s in the house, a boy no older then Carl opening the door, flocked by his mother who waves at Rick as she motions them into the house. Rick waves back as he’s pulling off, circling round the center of the estate and driving back out the way they came. Daryl unintentionally breathes a sigh of relief, glad to be out in the open where memories can float away as soon as they're founded. 

Rick stops at the end of the road, turning the opposite direction to home when he gets there.

“Where are we going?” Daryl asks, looking back in the direction they came to check they really are going the wrong way.

“You’ll see.” Rick says, the note of finality to it telling Daryl that it's all he’s going to get out of him for the majority of the conversation.

It doesn’t take long for them to pull up at a park, Rick getting out of the car before Daryl can even wonder what they’re doing here. He supposes it must be to walk Lacy, seen as Rick walks to the back of the car and clips her lead onto her, letting her jump out of the car and onto the grass.

Surprisingly enough, Rick turns in the opposite direction to the actual park, leaving Daryl to jog up to him and walk at his side. He goes to say something, but Rick just tilts his head in his direction, throws him a little indulgent smile that’s usually reserved for Carl. Daryl would think it was aimed at someone else, but when he turns his head around to look there’s no one there.

They’re walking parallel to a forest, across fields that remind Daryl of Hershel’s farm, the occasional herd of livestock greeting him as if encouraging his remembrance. They don’t startle as they did while he was on his bike and even though it’s stupidly insignificant, Daryl think’s that has some grain of meaning. It’s only when they get to a kissing gate that Rick let’s Lacy off of her lead, lets her run into the field beyond it as soon as it’s opened. 

The field they step into is different from the ones they passed, no livestock or evidence of it anywhere to be found. The grass grows richly, yellow dandelions more prominent then the grass itself with a scattering of trees lined around the edges and encroaching their way into the middle. Rick leads him over to the one most central, whistling for Lacy when she wanders too far out of range. He sits down in a rare patch of grass that’s free of dandelions and Daryl, still unsure what they’re doing, sits down beside him.

“I used to come here a lot with Shane.” Rick says, in explanation following Daryl’s quizzical look.

“Shane as in…”

“That’s the one.” Rick says, with a smile free of anything but fond remembrance. “I used to get what you had, the panic attacks. I didn’t have a specific reason, not really, it was anxiety, chemical imbalance in the brain.”

Daryl almost goes to say something. He’s not even sure of what, just thinks maybe he should respond to a story like this, that he should offer words of comfort. But Rick doesn’t look sad and Daryl realizes that he wouldn’t want someone to interrupt him if he decided to share something so personal. Instead he looks just slightly off from Rick, focuses on Lacy to better listen to what he’s saying instead of wondering what he should say back.

“I used to have this thing. I’d have elastics on my wrist and I’d just let them snap against it when I felt panicked. Not to harm myself, just to control it, contain it. Shane could spot me doing it a mile off, knew what it meant, and this one day at school I was having a bad day and Shane pulled me out of physics sat me in his car and drove me all the way here.”

Rick looks to Daryl as Daryl looks to him, smiles slightly before continuing.

“He sat me down in the middle of this damn field and said ‘Count the dandelions Rick.” Rick laughs, waves a hand around at the mass of dandelions in the field. Daryl can’t help but let out his own huff of laughter, looking round at the mass of yellow in the field as Rick does. “I was confused, obviously, was thinking that if I try and count all these damn dandelions I’m never gonna leave.”

Another huff of laughter, and Daryl picks one of the dandelions beside him from the grass, if only to have something to distract himself from the way Rick smiles at managing to make him laugh.

“But Shane sat down next me and said ‘You count that side of the tree, I’ll do this side.’” Rick looks back round to Lacy himself, whistles her back over again. “It was only a few hours later, when I realized how calm I felt, that I got it.”

Daryl looks back to him, gently pushing a bug off of his jeans as he does so, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

“He just wanted to make me comfortable, sit me down here and let me relax, stop me overthinking things so I could stop panicking about them.” Rick says, and Daryl suddenly understand why they’re here.

He lies back, stretches an arm above his head and lays the other one over his stomach. The sun’s cutting across the sky at an angle, allowing Daryl to remain in it despite laying horizontally underneath the tree. The tree itself is just beginning to bloom, white flowers intermingling with the pale green of the leaves, a few early spring casualties floating to the ground in the gentle breeze, falling out of sight behind overgrown dandelions.

“When I was at yours, after I…” _Panicked_. He doesn’t say it, that makes something that seems like a long distant dream feel far too real. “I ran a bath, held my head under the water ‘cause it felt like I could breathe when I did.”

Rick looks down at him, but it doesn’t seem derogatory, it’s just an angle, just a different viewpoint and that seems like something Daryl could use right now anyway.

“I’m not _like that_.” _Not like Mom, not like Bill_. “It was just calming, I felt... in control.”

Rick nods at him encouragingly, looks at him with eyes that say _I know that’s not all that happened_ at the same time they say _I don’t need to know anymore._ Daryl says it anyway, because right now, surrounded by the mass of the field and warmed by the sun like the light thinks he’s deserving of it, the truth slips out of him like a kitten’s purr.

“I don’t think,” He stops, tries to blink away the water that blurs his vision. “I don’t think I would’ve come up, not it Carl hadn’t shouted for me.”

Daryl look towards Rick, doesn’t see anger, doesn’t see a carbon copy of Merle comparing him to everyone they’ve been taught to hate. All he sees is compassion, kind-hearted and honest, blue eyes that look like the tranquility of fountains, the chaos of a waterfall all rolled into one, and even though Daryl’s lying below Rick it feels like Rick’s looking up at him.

“Is that fucked up?” Daryl asks, whisper soft and fragile as figurines.

“No.” Rick says, just as softly but tough as steel.

Daryl sits up, and Rick presses a hand against his back to help him, uses it to gently encourage Daryl to rest against his shoulder, feeling trembling hands wrap under his arms and rest against his shoulder blades. The stay like that for a while, and Rick only pulls away when Daryl stops shaking, can’t quite help the bone deep reaction to lean forward and brush his lips against Daryl’s forehead.

Rick pulls away, wonders if he’s crossed a line and angered Daryl. Nothing greets his concern but a small smile and Daryl gently takes the lead from Rick’s hands to go get Lacy.

Rick watches Daryl as he runs across the field, clips the lead onto Lacy’s collar and throws a smile over his shoulder at him. It’s something so small, so little following what was essentially a massive step towards knowing and helping Daryl, but Rick can’t help but think Daryl looks beautiful. Smiling happily, surrounded by flowers with a dog running at his heels. It isn’t just that though, Rick can’t help but think Daryl would look beautiful even without all that, knows that he does because he’s seen it.

It crashes into Rick like waves and he can’t yet tell whether they're violent or gentle. He thinks it’s wrong, _knows_ it’s wrong, for so many reasons other than the obvious, and even though Rick used to watch cases like this and scoff at the descriptions of it he can’t help but feel like it’s _right._

He wonders how you’re supposed to resist the gravitational pull of someone, especially when they shine like the light of the universe forged into one being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rickyl has officially begun! (just about) :)
> 
> Quick note to say that while Rick says Daryl's actions in the bathroom weren't 'fucked up', it's more in disregard to the language used. He isn't necessarily saying there's nothing wrong with it, just that with the way Daryl means it, it would be detrimental to tell him 'yes'. Thank you! :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelming support on the last two chapters, as well as every single comment, kudos and bookmark given previously! :)
> 
> One of the more lighthearted chapters for today, as well as an insert from the Goat Wikipedia page that isn't mine. That also sounds awfully irrelevant without the context, but it does make sense! (I hope) 
> 
> The addition to the chapters is intentional, mainly because I'm still working out the ending as I go and things are still changing! It may even go up again, but I can't be sure yet!
> 
> Jessie is Jessie from Alexandria (I forgot to check her kids names before I posted the last chapter, so we're stuck with Adam, my bad) She's only a passing character, there's no Rick/Jessie on any horizon I can see. :)

Rick has to try hard to avoid it, because once you notice something it’s hard to stop noticing it.

It’s while they’re walking back with Lacy, brown hair inter-spaced with gold that Rick’s never cared to see before glinting in the sun, falling over blue eyes that look at Rick like he’s the sun and they’re the long questing, unreachable moon. Shoulders that have no right being that broad at seventeen, black sleeveless button up that grasps at the edges of his arms like they themselves are only just realizing the magnitude of being close enough to touch.

It’s small smiles, that he didn’t notice looked so honest for the small space they’re allowed to occupy, honesty that’s held back, ready to reiterate itself into lies, look Rick in the eyes and deny him that view of trust. There’s a sense of shielding to him, fractured enough to lay wide open but trying so hard to remain shut and the lope of his gait is thrown off for a reason Rick thinks he knows but can’t quite understand.

He wants to understand Daryl, and that’s a good thing to focus on, mainly because he wanted to understand Daryl a long time before he looked at him and the motion of his head threw the world off its axis. Knowing, at the very least, seems important, because there have been too many times where Rick has said something and, without fanfare, Daryl has reacted in a way Rick never wanted to evoke. He just wants to know, the smallest amount possible, a fraction of what Daryl feels he’s comfortable talking about if that’s what keeps trust brightening blue eyes.

Understanding, after all, comes on his side. All the helping hands in the world can’t lead Rick through understanding whatever it is exactly Daryl’s been through. There’s no easy way about it, no quick fix read, because Daryl is an individual person and this is an independent situation and the uniqueness of it frees it from the common constructs of child abuse texts and analysis. Rick doesn’t want to buy a book and read it and try to mold the basis of knowledge to individual situations, expect it to fit like he took the time to make it himself.

It’s not the way it works, not the way anything works, too many inconsistencies and differences that diversify each situation and make it anything but interchangeable. 

And Daryl deserves more than the template of care.

Rick wants to give him one crafted to what he needs individually, not what thousands of others were given in the hope that people so different could be united by circumstance and end up all the same.

It takes Rick’s mind off of other things, things like noticing your student has a physique crafted from marble and eyes like gems, maybe cracked and maybe marked, maybe even more damaged than Rick ever anticipated. Still worth a fortune though, because every time Daryl smiles at him Rick thinks of the Mona Lisa, a hand painted smile so serene it its simplicity, so undecided in its exact emotion, and a masterpiece which took time, took care, took _understanding._

Rick doesn’t know what Daryl will do, whether he’ll want to leave in a few months or a few years, whether he’ll move on and forget about the past or stay right where he is and work his way through it. Either way, Rick wants to help, wants to understand even though he’s not quite sure how to go about doing so, still wary after the last time he asked Daryl a question that would’ve offered too much insight if answered.

He thinks he might stick with general, let Daryl decide how much he says, how much of the masterpiece he unveils in any one go. If Daryl wants to focus in on specifics he has complete control of how far they go, if he wants to say nothing he can get around a general question just as generally.

It doesn’t take them long to get back to the car, Rick opening the door for Lacy to hop in and un-clipping her lead from her collar. Daryl’s there straight away, a hand reaching to him from the front seat to take the lead off of him, before he leaves it and gets it tangled. Rick hands it over gratefully, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting up the car, backing out of the park with equal amounts of care shown towards those outside the car and those inside the car.

“You okay?” He asks Daryl, turning to face him and being met by the back of his head.

“Yeah.” Daryl turns to face him, smiles a little. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

Rick doesn’t know whether to risk it, whether the relaxed atmosphere of the car will help or hinder any effort to get Daryl to speak to him. It feels like the guessing game’s gone on long enough, like the simple fact that ordinary things can garner such strange reactions from Daryl wasn’t proof enough of miscommunication issues. 

“When you came over to mine.” Rick starts, keeping his eyes on the road even when he sees Daryl turn to him in his peripheral. “Were you okay then?”

Daryl shrugs. “I was getting there.” 

Rick takes that as a good enough sign to continue. “Then, when you asked me for ointment-”

“Please don’t do this right now.” Daryl says and even though he doesn’t look uncomfortable, Rick can deduce enough from his tone to know he could be, if the conversation continues.

“Right now?” Rick questions, wondering if that time frame sets the clock of understanding moving, regardless of its current pause.

“Maybe not ever.” Daryl shakes his head, looks back out to the window. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Rick says. “I just want to-"

“Understand.” Daryl finishes, turning to look at Rick as he glances towards him. He sighs. “Maggie told me that. That people might want to know.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you.” It’s an admission that seems more intimate than Rick intended, for a reason he can't quite fathom past the acknowledgement of it and he quickly reminds himself that his _student_ is sat beside him in this car.

Daryl smiles, like he heard the intimacy and interpreted it as friendship. “You’re not.”

They arrive at Adam’s house pretty quickly. Rick parks outside, and he’s about to get out of the car when a women from earlier comes running down from the house. Daryl rolls down his window as she comes to a stop before it, bending down slightly to look into the car. She’s pretty, blonde hair and eyes that look blue in the shade and green in the sun, she also has them completely focused on Rick, but Daryl supposes that’s normal when he’s the only competition for her attention.

“Sorry Rick.” She starts, looking honestly apologetic enough for Daryl to like her. “I let them go in the pool so Carl’s just getting changed.”

“It’s alright Jessie.” Rick says, thousand watt smile lighting up the car and no doubt casting Daryl into unintentional shadow. “We’ll just wait.”

“Are you sure?” She says, leaning even further forward towards the car, eyes completely focused on Rick. “You can come in if you want.”

“I’m sure.” Rick waves a hand in Daryl’s direction. “Daryl and I are good to wait.”

It’s the first time 'Jessie’ seems to notice Daryl and he can’t even blame her, if their positions were reversed he’d be completely focused on Rick as well. As it is she stands up, smiling at Daryl a little less enthusiastically (but no less kindly) than she had at Rick. 

“I’ll go tell him you’re waiting.” She says, walking away and stopping at the door to wave at Rick. Rick waves back, the domestic picture distorted by Daryl rolling up the window, blackened glass closing completely before the door to the house ever does.

“She likes you.” Daryl mentions, trying for casual.

Rick raises an eyebrow at him, face twisting into a quirky little smirk Daryl can’t remember seeing before. “Who, Jessie?”

“Yeah.” Daryl says, watching Rick look back towards the house. “She single?”

“Just got out of a bad relationship.” Rick says it like it’s a sad thing, but he doesn’t look all that sad about it. “Husband died.”

“It’s for the best.” Daryl agrees, wondering how so many people in the world can beat on their wives, hopes the kids he saw earlier got out without too many hits. “You gonna go for it?”

“Go for what?”

Daryl nods his head towards the house, using it to represent Jessie, and even then it takes Rick a little while to get it.

“I think I’m gonna take a break from women for a while.” He muses, leaning both his arms over the steering wheel and looking towards Daryl.

There’s something in the way the light shines on his eyes and wedding ring at the same time that confuses Daryl. His eyes look ridiculously blue, like completely still water, calm and unblemished, a perfect reflection of the blue sky above it. It’s also the first time Daryl’s ever noticed that his eyelashes aren’t as black as they seem, that they look more auburn in direct sunlight, more warm than a shade could ever be, too colorful to be classed in grey scale.

The wedding ring itself pales in comparison, but the shine of it, the tinged silver slightly worn from years of constant wear still manages to send a twinge of guilt through Daryl’s gut, establishes the feeling of wrongdoing without letting him know what he’s doing wrong. It feels like a distraction, like he needs a reason to be distracted and Daryl starts to wonder why the fact that Rick still wears that band manages to make him feel invasive.

It isn’t long before the door opens, Carl walking through it with his hair plastered to his neck, t-shirt practically see through with how soaked it is. Daryl thinks Rick’s brief look into the back seat might’ve been an attempt at some type of damage control, but seeing as Lacy’s already drooling all over the window he must count it as a lost cause. 

When Carl gets to the car he’s smiling ear to ear, soggy piece of paper held in his grip. Lacy practically crawls onto his lap, and even though it makes the whole thing awkward, especially since Rick’s trying to drive, Carl manages to force his way back into the gap between the front seats, shoving the paper in Daryl’s direction and not relenting until Daryl turns to face him.

“Daryl!” Carl whines, after the first time of failing to get Daryl’s attention, shoving the paper into his face once he turns. “Look.”

Daryl takes the paper off him, looks down at it and sees a load of writing and some sort of table with a picture of a goat on it. “What is it, kid?”

“I lost the other one but Adam let me print it at his.” Carl says excitedly, prying his other arm out from under Lacy to point at the third paragraph. “Read that bit.”

“’Female goats are referred to as ‘does’ or ‘nannies.” Daryl quotes, huffing once he reads it and turning back to the kid. “That what you trying to tell us kid, you want a nanny?”

Rick coughs, but Daryl’s pretty sure it’s a badly disguised laugh. He looks over at him, but Rick’s studiously keeping his eyes on the road, no doubt grateful for the alleviation of the tense atmosphere Daryl had unintentionally inflicted on him earlier.

“No!” Carl whines, points back to the paragraph and taps the page when Daryl doesn’t look back at it. “Keep reading.”

“’Intact males as ‘bucks’, ‘billies’ or ‘rams’,” Daryl pauses, throws Carl a look in the wing mirror that the kid doesn’t even see. “And their offspring are ‘kids’.”

Carl sits back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a laugh. “So I’m not a kid!”

“Seems pretty accurate to me.” Rick says, looking back at Carl through the rear view mirror, watching as he pushes himself back into the gap of the seat and disappears from the frame. He doesn’t say anything more, but Rick can feel two pairs of expectant eyes on him, looks across at Daryl to briefly study the look of curious indifference resting on his face.

“Well Daryl’s the Nanny.” Daryl huffs, patting a hand onto his right peck like he’s checking the authenticity of his masculinity, either that or expressing some type of deep rooted offence. Rick looks back to Carl. “Since you wanted one so much.”

No one says anything to interrupt him, though Rick’s pretty sure the car feels the most light-hearted it’s ever been, even with the look Daryl keeps throwing him after the ‘Nanny’ gibe. Rick tries to remember what the male one was called but thinks there might have been more than one.

“I’m the ram, buck?” He asks, glancing to Daryl for confirmation and receiving a slightly haughty nod. “And that makes you the kid.”

“Damn right Baby Goat.” Daryl drawls, his voice lightened by the laugh that carries it and Rick thinks it’s probably the most at ease he’s ever seen him, makes a mental note to take him to the field more often.

Carl doesn’t say anything straight away, thinks through everything in the back seat. “What’s Mom?”

“Your Mom’s the real ‘doe’.” Daryl says, saving Rick’s story from a particularly nasty fault. “I just deal with you sometimes ‘cause you’re a pain in the ass.”

Carl starts to protest, but Daryl holds up a hand.

“And the Ram here, as his ‘intact male’ self, can’t handle you on his own.”

Rick goes to protest too, but decides against it at the laughs that ricochet around the car, hitting all of them and splintering but doing no damage to anything but the lingering tense feel that had been residing in his gut. It doesn’t alleviate it completely, Rick knowing that sooner rather than later he’s going to have to address Daryl’s issues, finally put Carol’s advice to good use and make good on the ‘this isn’t about what he wants, it’s about what he needs’ advice.

The only problem is that Rick knows Daryl must’ve never had what he wanted in his life, and that his own idea of what he needs is probably as distorted as his idea that he doesn’t deserve anything he wants. It makes Rick want to give him everything on a silver platter and the only thing that holds him back is the fact that Daryl would take receiving something like that as a sign of acceptance for what he offered Rick so long ago, would think that Rick was finally accepting the offer, accenting to the give/take.

Maybe he needs to meet the whole situation half way, split the idea of want and need down the middle and fight for what he needs as well as accenting to what he wants. Try and get him what he needs up until the point Daryl wants him to stop.

It’s getting close to 7pm by the time the pull up to the apartment block, and Rick decides to phone for pizza because he doesn’t know whether he can juggle cooking pasta and making Lacy her food all before getting Carl to bed and trying to talk to Daryl.

It’s an itinerary that’s fighting back, and Rick doesn’t even know if he could’ve dealt with it docile.

Ordering pizza is a struggle unto itself, mainly because Carl wants three separate toppings and Daryl’s trying to convince Rick that he doesn’t want anything, that slightly panicked, proposition Daryl starting to creep back into his voice every time he says 'please'. Rick has a moment of morbid thought where he’s surprised he’s not getting aroused, due to his unconventional thoughts in the field, before he remembers that forcing anyone (let alone someone so resigned to it) to do anything with him makes him feel absolutely sick.

It’s tense and it’s stressful but Rick still feels more calm than he had before the field. That and the fact that it feels like the essence of everyday family gives him enough energy to get through the whole ordeal without too much fanfare, ordering the pizza and feeding the dog and sitting down opposite Daryl with Carl in between them watching whatever program Carl was into these days.

Getting Carl into bed is easier, set in the almost well-established routine of enticing him to bed with Lacy and getting him down just as the exhaustion of the day takes over and he realizes how tired he actually is. Daryl stands in the doorway, as is also swiftly becoming routine, never quite included but always indicated to, pointed out by Carl as goodnights are spoken and lead away by Rick when all is said and done.

“Are you okay?”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that today.” Daryl says, leaning back into the couch and placing one socked foot up towards his chest, wrapping his arms around it and resting his chin against them. “I’m okay.”

Rick sits down opposite him, studies him while he has the chance to and tries to decide upon the best way to do this, the best way he can start it off, be general but focused, a vague outline of the conversation without any given finish line. “What does okay mean to you?”

Daryl blinks, looks up at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“If you had to sum up 'okay', what would it be?” Rick says, settling further into his side of the couch and throwing one of his arms over the back of it, trying to look as open as he possibly can.

“In between happy and sad I guess.” Daryl shrugs, pulls at the edge of his shirt so he can fiddle with a fraying hem. “Maybe leaning more towards happy.”

Rick nods. “Are you happy, Daryl?”

It takes Daryl a minute to answer, trying to think of what happy means to him so he can gauge his own feelings against it, attempting to remember previous happiness for a comparison and coming up blank. Surprisingly enough, it doesn’t make him panicked to not have an answer, just as the now well-established taste of truth lingering at the back of his tongue doesn’t make him feel sick.

“I-I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Rick asks, not looking confused so much as intrigued, honestly interested in Daryl’s reply.

“I’m not sad.” Daryl says, placing what was probably too much heartfelt emphasis on ‘sad’ itself. “But I don’t-”

“You’re okay.” Rick says, swoops in and saves Daryl from his attempt at explanation, no doubt well trained in spotting thought patterns that were bound to disintegrate into failure before the evolved to any type of acceptable explanation. 

“I’m okay.” Daryl agrees, looking to Rick and biting at his lip slightly. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah.” Rick says honestly, long versed in answering with the majority vote rather than listening to the lingering reminiscence of circumstantial doubt. “I have a wonderful son, I have great friends, great students-”

“The guy who offered you sex sat on your couch.” Daryl adds, huffs a self-deprecating laugh that makes Rick’s heart ache. “Talking about happiness.”

“There’s more to him than what he offered me.” Rick says, pointedly making eye contact and driving the message home, leaving it no hope of detour. “There’s more to him than I’ll ever know.”

“But you want to?” Daryl says, not accusing him so much as asking him.

“Not for the reasons you think.” Rick reassures him, sliding slightly further forward on the couch when the distance seems to be getting too large for such quiet sentences to travel.

“No, I know why.” Daryl says, smiles. “You’re not a bad guy.”

“I just want to -”

“Understand.” Daryl interrupts, just as he had in the car, nodding his head like he’s had this conversation more times than he can count. “I know.”

“Do you not want me to?” Rick asks, carefully factoring in the ‘wants’ without allowing for any possibility of selfishness, any undertones that could make Daryl think answering that question practically signed for a loan.

“I think it would be nice.” Daryl shrugs again, laughs a little, just as humorlessly as the last. “But I’d have to acknowledge it and that scares the shit out of me.”

“You can’t ignore it forever.” Rick says, as eagerly as he can without sounding commanding. “It’s not healthy.”

“I know.” Daryl says, and when he looks at Rick and the sapphire gems of his eyes look wet Rick can tell that he really does, can accept that for all the times he’s thought Daryl incapable of caring for himself he was wrong. Daryl knew how the whole time, he just didn’t have the means to do it. “And I think I want to… I just can’t.”

“Can’t ever?” Rick asks, not sure whether he’d be able to fully accept a positive answer.

Daryl shakes his head. “Can’t yet.”

“There’s just so many times I say something and I can see it hurts you.”

So many insignificant things that shouldn’t lead to so much sadness, so many childish questions that pull a smile to lips that want to frown, force brightness into eyes that only shine because they glimmer with tears and Rick has to wonder how many times Daryl’s had to hold back shouts and screams and tears to get so good at it. It sends a shiver running down his spine and yet again, a question that had bad implications solidifies itself into realization.

“You’ve never hurt me.” Daryl says, so quietly Rick has to shift closer towards him again. “Not once.”

“Then why do you-” _flinch, cry, rub your hand across your eyes and hope no one noticed either._

“That’s me hurting myself.” Daryl says, loosely pointing towards his head. “It’s my head, it’s my battle.”

Rick sighs, not out of exasperation as much as concern. “How’s the battle going?”

“Feels like I’m winning, also feels like I’m losing.” Daryl smiles, and Rick belatedly thinks there must be something more telling in that than he’s ever likely to know. “Like I’m fighting on a tightrope.”

“Always here for reinforcements.” Rick leans back slightly as Daryl shakes his limbs out, looking like he’s trying to forcibly get himself to relax.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out and repeats it. “Probably the most I’ve ever said about it and I haven’t told you anything.”

“I don’t need to know anything.” Rick says, ready to step in if nerves turn to panic. “I just want to understand.”

“You can’t understand without getting in here.” Daryl points to his head and Rick hates that he can see the hand tremble.

Rick hums in disagreement, places a hand on Daryl’s shaking one and lowers it fully onto the couch. “No, understanding’s on my end of the line.” 

“You wanna help though.” Daryl says and the fact that he doesn’t shake the hand off speaks as of yet unheard volumes to both of them. “That’s crossing the line.”

“Metaphorically or literally.” English teacher through and through.

“I don’t know yet.” Daryl says, feeling like it’s all he’s really said. “I don’t know if I want help.”

“It’s still here if you do.”

Daryl smiles at that, doesn’t let it drop when Rick smiles back, doesn’t hide it like he’s ashamed of looking happy when he can’t even tell if he is. That Rick can sound so sure about it makes Daryl feel secure, makes him feel like this particular safety net isn’t going to break anytime soon. That even if it does it will wind itself into rope and let him climb back up and try again.

“I feel like I want to tell you.” Daryl admits, smile falling but not lowering into a frown. “But I can’t, not yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Rick squeezes Daryl’s hand before letting go, gives him a way out of the conversation. “You have all the time in the world, and every right to use it.”

Daryl looks at him for a while without saying anything, huffs a little laugh through closed lips. “I don’t know why you’re worrying so much anyway.”

Rick’s brow furrows. “What?”

“About helping.” Daryl says, smiling the secret smile Maggie’s so fluent in. “You already are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note to say that Rick being 'surprised he isn't aroused' is meant to be derogatory to himself, and therefore slightly unbelievable considering what he knows about Daryl. He wasn't expecting to be aroused, but his thought is supposed to be intentionally hurtful, based on what he thought about Daryl in the field! Thank you! :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for every single kudos, comment and bookmark left on this story! We've just reached over 9000 hits and that is amazing! Thank you all so much for the support! :)
> 
> Once again, references of panic attack used in this chapter as based off of a friends experience, so I'm sorry if they don't seem quite right! :)
> 
> I made Rick a first-aider so this would work. Sorry about the cheating! :) (Quick reminder that I have no idea how first aid works either, but I tried my best!)

Rick had given Daryl his room to sleep in.

And when he says given he means practically forced him into taking it.

It probably wasn’t the best way to do it, almost definitely went against all the careful regulations Rick had put in place to make Daryl feel anything but indebted, but there was something about giving Daryl his room that felt like acceptance, felt like nudging Daryl further into the thought of family and grounding him there. 

There’s also the fact that Rick hates to see someone who’s gone their entire life without comfort be denied it by someone who has.

Rick’s family have always been good to him, proud parents of an only child who thought he’d hung the moon on a string as soon as he could move enough to fathom reaching for the stars. His Mom speaks to him like a friend, tells him gossip about the girls every time he phones her, trails off into whispered promises of affection that show off her maternal side but doesn’t amplify it to overpower everything else. His Dad's the sporty type, overjoyed when he realized he was having a son and long forged dreams of championship could suddenly come true. 

Rick was good at the sports he tried, particularly long distance running, sprinting, hurdles, a dapple into archery which showcased an affinity for hitting the target even if he never got dead center. Mom would cheer from the side-lines at every race, Shane would muscle up to him in his football gear and tell him to try a ‘real sport’, and Dad would sit like a preening bird and look prouder than any other person there even if Rick didn’t win.

And although Dad probably would have preferred a Sport Scholarship over an English Masters, he still supported Rick every step of the way, and managed to look just as proud as Rick always remembered him looking at competitions when his graduation came around.

Rick has the faintest urge to take Daryl to meet his parents, even though that feels like a step in a direction he’s very studiously trying to ignore and he worries the completely accepting feel of ‘family’ that permeates his old home might highlight all that Daryl's never had.

It could be beneficial as easily as it could be disastrous, but the situation feels too unbalanced to take a step in either direction with any level of certainty.

Rick’s been staring up at the ceiling for the majority of his thought process, studying the way the light filters through the slats of the blind and distorts itself against the mottled ceiling. It doesn’t remind him of his family home, those ceilings had been higher, smooth but for the decorative edge and lit artificially more times than not regardless of the time of day, but something about being able to sit still and study something reminds him of his old room, days spent pondering instead of being productive.

He briefly wonders what Daryl thinks of, when he looks to the sun or the shining light of it that disperses everywhere but still can’t touch everything, before he comes to the conclusion that he might not have anywhere to think of other than where he is right now. 

There’s a shifting opposite him and Rick looks to the side to see Daryl curled up on the armchair.

He’s facing away from Rick, his head curled into the corner of the chair where the arm meets the back and Rick would think it was cute if he hadn’t already put Daryl in his room. He doesn’t want to wake him, and it’s only when Daryl shifts to his back and blinks weary eyes over at Rick that he actually speaks.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’” Daryl drawls, rubs a hand over his eyes and uses his arm to cover his mouth as he yawns.

“You know I gave you the bed because I wanted you to sleep in it right?” Rick asks, shifting so he’s sitting up, rubbing a hand over his bare chest to try and elevate the ache that settles there.

“It still doesn’t feel right.” Daryl tilts one shoulder up. “It’s your bed.”

“It’s mine to give.” Rick argues, leans forward to gently rest his forearms against his sweatpants. “That’s why I wanted you to have it.”

“You don’t give something away for nothing.” It sounds like a lesson as much as something that’s already been taught and as much as Rick would like to query it the look on Daryl’s face holds him back.

He looks tired, like sleep itself exhausted him and something about the way he keeps gently rubbing at his own shoulder blade rings alarm bells in Rick’s head. It’s like the happiness from yesterday ran through him and left him ragged and Rick watches him tilt his head back over the arm of the chair, the arch of his back highlighted by the steep angle of his hipbones and wonders how ragged can look so put together.

Rick sighs, shakes his head physically as well as mentally, digs his fingers into his temples like he can drive those thoughts out of his mind and start helping Daryl again. 

There must be something wrong with him, to be looking at a physically and emotionally (not to mention his concerns over sexually) abused seventeen year old boy, who not only propositioned him, but showed up at his doorstep beaten black and blue hoping for reprieve. Everything in him reminds him that he’s a teacher, that a member of authority has no right looking at a child who falls under that control.

_You’re a good teacher too._

Rick hums in response to Daryl’s answer, steps up from the couch and stretches, reaching down for his shirt once he’s done and throwing it over his head. He walks out of the living room, hears the steady shift of fabric on leather and the soft pattering sounds of socked feet as Daryl follows behind him.

Carl’s bedroom is the first stop, primarily because Rick can’t often think of a better start to the morning than one that involves his son. Lacy’s awake when they walk in, head resting on her paws and tail thumping against both Carl’s bed and her own as she wags it. Rick walks in towards Carl, tries his best to shift him awake, doesn’t even realize that Lacy and Daryl are gone until he’s checking back over his shoulder for reinforcements and finds none there.

The swift, relatively unpainful adventure of getting Carl up is something Rick’s well versed in after over 10 years of being primarily responsible for everything he does and soon enough he has Carl somewhat awake and shoveling waffles into his mouth for the second time in as many days. 

“Kids gonna turn into a waffle.” Daryl huffs, tucking into his own with an enthusiasm that betrays the criticism in his remark.

Rick smiles, bites into the inside of his lip to keep it contained.

“You know what you said yesterday?” Carl asks, looking towards Daryl over the table. “About the dog?”

“Yeah?”

“You said I couldn’t meet your Dad ‘cause it would be like the dog.” Carl explains, and Rick looks to Daryl, watches his hands clench over the table like it'll ground him. “Does that mean it actually happened?”

“Carl.” Rick warns, this entire situation feeling like some twisted déjà vu, considering the state of events yesterday had brought forth.

“There are a lot of things wrong with my Dad, Baby Goat.” Daryl admits, looking down to his plate and shaking his hand to relax it.

Carl looks shocked and sad all rolled into one, a mess of emotion that Daryl feels solely responsible for inflicting. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” Daryl shrugs “There were a lot of things wrong with his Dad too.”

“But why-”

“Carl, stop it.”

Carl looks towards Daryl, seeming to take notice of how tense the conversation is turning out to be. The room remains in reluctant silence for a while, the only noise being the quiet ringing of china as Rick places all the plates and glasses together.

It’s not even Daryl’s fault, it was Rick’s plate that had been leaning on the edge of the table, his hand that reached for Daryl’s glass and placed it on top of it, and if anything, Carl’s rhythmic swinging of his own leg that pushed the table and knocked the whole thing over, but the floor was wooden and the table was a decent enough height from the it and the sound of glass shattering had Daryl flinching.

If anything though, he flinches more towards the glass than away from it, moving in quick, jerking movements down to his knees. Rick watches, confused as Daryl shakes, hands unsteady as they pick up and cradle each shard of broken glass.

“What are you doing Daryl?” Daryl jerks, looking at Rick like a deer caught in the headlights, accidentally allowing one of the shattered pieces in his hand to tumble from the small pile and smash into even smaller pieces on the floor. Daryl hisses, rubbing a sleeved arm across his eyes and biting his lip so hard Rick wonders at how he doesn’t break the skin. Rick doesn’t think he’d ever seen the boy look quite this scared and he can't even think to so anything but watch as Daryl dumps the pieces into the base, which had remained relatively intact bare a fine patchwork of cracks, and start scooping the splintered shards into a pile.

Rick stares for a while, and he’s so intent on Daryl’s face, on how he chews on his lip and flutters tears away from his lashes before they fall that he doesn’t immediately notice the blood on the floor. Of course when he does, he also realizes what a mess Daryl is making of his hands.

“Daryl!” It’s not quite a yell, and it was said with concern rather than condemnation, but Rick watches Daryl recoil and still feels like the worst person ever.

“Daryl, stop.” It’s quieter, softer, and Rick thinks he must have misjudged again because Daryl doesn’t even respond, just remains hunched over, scraping up every scrap of broken glass he can see and Rick honestly thinks there’s more in his hand than on the floor at this point but Daryl doesn’t even seem to notice that himself.

Rick looks at the way Daryl tries to rub away the spilt water with the sleeve of his jumper, dragging the wet cloth to the blood also dripping onto the floor and rubbing it away. The blood from his hand turns the spilt water a pale pink and Rick feels incredibly out of his depth.

He jumps up from the table and drags Carl through to the living room with Lacy, wraps his shaking hand around her collar and tells him to hold onto her, keep her here otherwise she might get glass in her paws. Carl nods, and that’s all Rick needs to know his son’s alright, to walk back through into the kitchen and deal with the other shaking mess that’s disintegrating into tears on the floor.

Daryl’s exactly where he was a minute ago, trying to soak up blood and water with a sleeve too saturated to do anything but mix the mess together.

“Daryl.” Rick says, bending down towards him and pulling his hands up to his chest. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Daryl mumbles, and if he was looking at the plate Rick might’ve thought he was apologizing for breaking it, as it stands, Daryl does nothing more than pull his hands into his own chest, cradling them across each other and trying to keep the blood from dripping onto the floor by getting it all over himself.

“I don’t know why I-” He stops, doesn’t really know how to sum it up, glances around the room instead and hears the soft pattering of claws in the living room. “I scared Carl.”

Rick shakes his head. “He’s scared for you, not scared of you.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay, you just panicked.” Rick interrupts, moving forward to cup Daryl’s hands between his own and shift them forward into the light, glad to see that they’re not quite as much of a mess as he thought they were. “There are so many different versions of panic attacks, this was just one of them. You’re okay.”

“I’m bleeding all over your floor.” Daryl says, watching the small trails of blood sliding down his hands to impact with the floor.

It seems macabre, but Rick can’t help but compare it to modern art, all abstract shapes and patterns, frustration thrown at a canvas until it’s swimming in emotion and drowning in the paint used to express it. Daryl’s tools were sharper, and the infliction of it was more self-orientated than Rick would ever want, but he’s already made the connection between Daryl and a masterpiece once and that might be why, this time at least, it doesn’t feel quite so surprising.

“The floor is the least of my worries, as is the glass.” Rick let’s go of Daryl’s hands, moving round him to pick him up by his shoulders, trying to convince himself the half-hearted punch towards his arm was unintentional. “What I’m concerned about is getting the glass out of your hand.”

Daryl jerks his head round to face him, the unsteady staccato rhythm of his breathing impacting Rick’s neck every time it leaves his mouth. “I don’t want to go to hospital.”

“Why?” Rick asks, already leading Daryl through the living room, past a startled Carl and out towards his car keys.

“Do I look like the kind of person who has insurance?” Daryl whispers it like a secret, but all in all this situation feels too open to hide anything anymore. Daryl looks so heartbroken, like he’s reading off a list of his failures to the only person who ever believed him capable of success.

Rick tilts Daryl’s chin slightly and lifts blue eyes to his own. The ocean too dull to properly reflect the brightness of the sky. “I’d happily pay.”

“You’ve already shot down the only way I could repay you once.” Daryl says it so quietly, looks over his shoulder to check Carl didn’t hear, and all of his body language seems like someone preparing to make a deal, the mental and physical readiness of disappointment seeping its way back into Daryl’s bones and making itself at home.

Rick only lets go of his chin to grasp him by the shoulders, leading him down the corridor towards the bathroom. “It’s a good thing I’m a first-aider then, isn’t it?”

Carl looks like he wants to follow as they walk away, but Rick gently encourages him back down onto the couch, waving a hand in a movement that wouldn’t be understandable if Carl hadn’t grown up learning from it. Getting Daryl into the bathroom is easy enough, despite the fact that he seems unwilling to put his hands on or against anything for fear of getting blood on anything else Rick owns.

“Sit down on the bath.” A gentle nudge accompanies the order, and Daryl goes willingly enough, balancing himself on the thin edge of the bathtub as Rick grabs the first aid kit and settles himself between Daryl’s thighs.

“Come here.” Rick breaths, pulling both of Daryl’s hand towards himself, moving them gently as he can towards the tap. “It’ll hurt a bit.”

Daryl shrugs, tries very hard not to remember all the previous times he sat in a position like this, most commonly reversed but Daryl didn’t consider that much of a bad situation as far as options go. Rick’s head is damn near touching his stomach, leaning over one of his thighs so he can hold Daryl’s hand under the trickling water, strong hands gently caressing tender flesh like the condition of it remains precious to him. It’s not an awkward situation and after everything Daryl’s done, he has a good enough grasp on self-control to keep it enjoyable, calming even.

“Do you know why you panicked?” Rick asks, sifting through the first aid box to find a pair of tweezers.

Daryl shakes his head, holds his hands back out to him. “Not really.” 

“No idea at all?” Rick pushes, deciding to do it despite knowing it’s a bad idea. “I don’t want to push you, but breaking a glass doesn’t cause reactions like that for no reason.”

Daryl looks away from him, focuses on the wall, doesn’t even flinch when Rick has to dig slightly deeper to get at another splinter. It’s only when he’s got a rhythm going, when the small piece of bandage on the floor is starting to clink together every time he adds another shard to it that he stops, taps on an uninjured section of Daryl’s hand to get his attention.

“Daryl.” He turns, locks eyes with Rick just briefly before fluttering away again. “I’ve let it go every time and look what’s happened.” 

“I can’t.” _Speak. Say it. Tell you._ It’s all the same but all so different and Daryl would love to tell Rick it isn’t him, but this hadn’t seemed as difficult with Maggie and he’s starting to think it might be.

Rick tilts his head to the side, says nothing about the way Daryl’s eyes are glassy, looking like lined up bottles, condensation running down them like tears. There's water there, resting on the edge of his lash line, and Rick chooses not to mention that either. 

“Why?” He asks instead, pulling out another splinter.

“’Cause it hurts.” 

Rick knows he isn’t talking about his hands, wonders what it means that fear can still make him shake but pain keeps him so steady. Daryl’s still staring at the wall, away in his own head and Rick contemplates asking again but decides to let him be, let him talk when he wants to talk and not a minute sooner.

Because when someone’s had other peoples needs forced upon them their whole life and their own wants have been irrelevant in comparison, Rick thinks it’s better to let Daryl experience what he should already know, rather than forcing him back into habits that got him like this in the first place.

Daryl himself is thinking about when he was little, on one of the occasions he went over someone’s house to sleep over, inevitably never stayed and then never saw them again. He’d been on his way out, the kid leading him across one of the landings when he’d spotted something that caught his eye.

“How did ya get your Mom to smile like that?” Daryl had asked, stopping at one of the pictures framed along the landing.

The boy looked at him like he’d asked ‘one of those stupid questions’ again and Daryl had wondered why people kept trying to be so damn nice to him when he obviously fucks so many things up.

“It’s a picture, we got them done at one of those photo places.” 

Daryl had bowed his head, and glanced at the other pictures, seeing happy smiling faces in every one. The boy had backtracked the few steps he had taken across the landing to stand by Daryl’s side again, not really understanding why Daryl had that little furrow between his eyebrows, why happy pictures make him so sad.

“We don’t got none of them where I live.”

It sounded so damn resigned, and the boy had quickly realized that he didn’t understand it, didn’t understand why it was a problem. He knew better than to try and comfort Daryl physically (seen as how many of their classmates had tried that and failed), all in all that always seemed to make him more upset, but he ached to reach out a hand and just hold, like the boy’s Mom did when their dog died, or his friends did when he got shouted at for being late to class.

“That’s okay, it’s a picture. You can take them with a camera, just gotta tell whoever’s in it to smile.” 

Daryl had looked up at him, staring more at his nose than his eyes.

“I can do that.”

When Daryl got home, he’d walked to his Mom’s room and sat down at the edge of her bed.

“Smile Mom.” He’d said, tried to catch her eyes through the curtain of her hair.

It should’ve worked, because the boy said it would, and he’d been smarter than Daryl, he’d known things, he was going places, he was gonna be one of them Doctors or Lawyers or something fancy like that.

Daryl never did see his Mom smile.

“It was my Mom.” He says, emotion pushed forth by apathy. “Used to throw bottles at Merle and I, Dad would get pissed about the glass.”

“You know no one’s going to hurt you here.” Rick says, and he doesn’t sound surprised, just sad in a way that doesn’t sound nearly as pitying as Daryl thought it would. “Right?”

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t be afraid to talk.” Rick grabs a bandage out of the box, wraps it around Daryl’s left hand gently. “It’s the only way people can try and listen.”

“I never wanted anyone to hear.” Daryl says, evidence of lifelong secrets stored in every syllable. Rick thinks that makes a lot of sense, that Daryl would worry about talking not because he thought no one would listen to him, but because he worried people would take more from it than he wanted them to.

“Caring amplifies hearing. When you’re focused on someone you care for, you can hear so much more than you thought you could.” Rick says, agreeing with everything Daryl is no doubt thinking “Every word has new meaning, every tone gives away something the words couldn’t.”

“I never wanted anyone to care.” Daryl continues, carbon copies of sentences that say little but show a lot. “Never expected it.”

“Well you’ve got it.” Rick reaches for the tape, bites of a section of it around his next sentence. “Got me, Hershel, Maggie, Carl and Glenn.”

Daryl nods his head slowly, takes a minute to think. “Lost my brother in the process.”

“Does he feel lost right now?” Rick asks, not surprised that it’s come round to this, considering the lack of conversation they had about it and the state Daryl showed up in after their talk. “Or is he a missing you never found.”

“What?”

“How long has he been lost Daryl?”

“A long time.” Daryl admits, gives his other hand to Rick so he can wrap that one too.

“Do you think you can find him?” Rick accepts his hand, wraps it with eyes that watch what he’s doing as much as they check Daryl’s expression.

Daryl bites his lip, rolls his tongue over his teeth. “Nah, he won’t let me.”

“Then how can you have lost him.” Rick says, tearing off another piece of tape, belatedly reminding himself to buy a pair of scissors. “If someone’s lost, but lost is exactly where they want to be, they’re not missing, they’re just away.”

“I don’t want him to be away.” Daryl thinks that sounds worse, eliminates the possibility of bringing Merle back.

“Away isn’t gone.” Rick cups both of Daryl’s hands gently, steps away to sort the first aid kit. “Away can come back.”

Can come back himself, is what Rick’s trying to say. Looking at Daryl and acknowledging that he can’t help right now, that Merle’s a subject that runs too deep into old wounds that are trying to heal. If Rick’s seen anything of Dixon endurance, he’s sure Merle will be fine, sure Daryl will be ready and waiting for his brother when he decides he wants help too. 

“Maybe he’s thinking of bottles, thinking of glass, thinking of fragility of all things.” Rick ponders. “It’s a dangerous topic, it’s so easily broken when handled too heavily.”

Daryl stares at him for a moment, looks back down to his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with my brother.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you either.” Rick tilts his head to the side to catch Daryl’s eyes. “Doesn’t mean wrong hasn’t been _done_ to both of you.”

Daryl raises both his hands as if in some kind of explanation. “This was me.”

“No it wasn’t, not all of it.” Rick nods down to his hands, thinks of broken bottles flung at young skin. “A lot of this was your Mom.”

“Mom’s dead.”

“Exactly.” Rick says, smiles slightly even though it isn’t the time for happiness. “Dead thoughts linger longer than living ones.”

It sounds true at least, because how many time has Daryl thought about ashes, or a shotgun propped against the wall but never quite touched. It sounds like him and Merle, back at the prison, of _‘you going all Uncle Bill on me?’_ and _‘Nah, I ain’t Mom.’_

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Rick says, licking his lips like he’s testing the waters. “And you don’t owe me a thing, not a single thing. I get more in a day from just seeing you happy, than I ever could from accepting any type of offer. You underestimate how much friendship means to people.”

Daryl looks into the bath, drags a fingertip through the water still clinging to the sides. “I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“Being friends.”

“Friends are awesome.” Carl says, standing at the door with Lacy flush against his leg. “They help you and make you laugh and share things with you.”

Daryl glances up at Carl, resumes sliding a fingertip through the water droplets. Daryl thinks of what Rick’s done for him. The first time he ever came here and Rick made him laugh when he was talking about Shane. When he showed up, bloodied and half conscious and even though he’d fucked it all up the first time Rick still helped him. How Rick had shown him the field, gone out of his way to calm Daryl down by sharing something with him, even when it was so personal.

“I’m your friend anyway, so you’ll get it soon enough.” Carl says, like that sorts everything. 

“Thanks Baby Goat.” Daryl says, because even though it doesn’t, it kind of does.

“And Dad’s been your friend even longer than I have.” Carl adds, twisting his lips up into a smile. “But he can’t be doing a very good job.”

“He’s doing a great job.” And Daryl means it. 

Rick looks between them for a minute, glancing down to Lacy and following the motion of her tail, convinced she can pick up emotions better than most humans can. Even though it feels relaxed enough for Lacy to mirror it, Daryl still has that ever present feel of exhaustion, the type that doesn’t go away with rest and even though Rick wants to hug him, the slight ache in his arm from where Daryl accidentally-on purpose punched him makes him question it.

“Carl come here and hug Daryl for me.” He decides, Daryl’s face turning to look at his own faster than he’s ever seen him move.

“Why?”

“Because he can’t punch you for doing it.”

Carl laughs, steps forward into the bathroom, careful not to step on any glass and holds his arms out for Daryl to hug him. Daryl almost seems to sway in place, as eager for contact as he is for space, and Rick’s incredibly proud of Carl for even thinking to give him the overall choice. Eventually, Daryl sways forward and keeps going, loops his arms around Carl’s back and lets the kid hug him, turning into his hair so he doesn’t have to look Rick in the eye.

Carl doesn’t linger too long and once he lets go Daryl’s attention is pulled to Rick, standing to the corner of the bathroom with pink stained shirt sleeves and a smile on lips that make any other expression look dull. Daryl holds his arms out, tentatively, feeling like a complete idiot but determined enough to ignore it.

“I won’t punch you either.”

And Rick hugs him, because who is he to deny Daryl what he wants?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who supports this story! Although I say it ever chapter, the appreciation has not diminished and I am grateful for ever kudos, comment and bookmark!
> 
> After some reformatting, this is going to be 43 chapters long! It is currently just under 135000 words and I have 5 chapters left to write! I don't know what I'm going to do with my life once it's finished. 
> 
> I'd also like to say a very big thank you to MermaidSheenaz, who has kindly taken the time to point out any errors she sees in this! (She knows this story better then I do, I kid you not) as well as a massive thank you to all the other lovely people who have stuck with this story from the beginning! You're all amazing! :)
> 
> I changed Rick's gunshot scar to one formed after an accident with a crossbow, mainly for the connection to Daryl's own, sorry if that annoys anyone! :)

The week passes slowly for Daryl, odd considering how quickly the weekend comes back around.

Time’s passing weirdly in general, catching Daryl off guard, leaving him stranded in the time he believed it to be and moving on regardless. He doesn’t feel stranded though, the tide that once carried him away from Rick has long since grown steady enough for Daryl to fight against it. It feels more like taking in the scenery, stopping to appreciate the grandiosity of something else and not feeling irrelevant for being inferior to it, appreciating time while he has it.

The passing of time fluctuates, focusing in on Daryl as easily as it shifts right pass him. Carl comes and goes along with it, the occasional smile from Lori pausing it for a while, giving Daryl the chance to observe, to remember that his mother dying didn’t mean he was dead to the compassion of another. Rick remains something that passes slowly, the conversations between them lingering in the atmosphere as easily as it does Daryl’s own mentality. The words he speaks seems to take minutes, his sentences lengthening to hours, full days passing before Daryl could ever completely understand the meaning behind everything Rick Grimes says.

Daryl always thought time was motionless, emotionless, didn’t move so much as stay stock still in place, freeze people in whatever unwanted situation they were stuck in and hold them there indefinitely. Now he realizes it’s much more fluid, runs through people's veins just as blood does, undisturbed unless some outside source brings it to the surface. It can pass so silently, go completely unnoticed in any given situation and Daryl starts to wonder how the most important thing in the world can be so adept at remaining unnoticed.

Maybe it’s the immortality of it compared to themselves, that it will outlive them in all ways but isn’t weighed down by the constriction of actual life, doesn’t have a clock on emotions and feelings and humanity. It’s a concept, but one that establishes itself so well into acceptance it rings truer than most religions. 

No one doubts the passing of time. 

It’s a silent killer, for if nothing else beats it, it’ll be the thing that ends you. Removed from its orbit as easily as it held you captive within it.

It reminds Daryl of his Dad.

His Dad always felt just as unreliable, the deceptive calm before the storm, the waves of the ocean that crushed boats as easily as they lapped against the shore, the mimicry of a caress against fractured bones and shrapnel ladled hearts.

Dad’s words didn’t linger like Ricks, washed over Daryl almost too fast to register, wiped the slate clean but still left everything so marred. The marks were too deep to wash away, too embedded to be brushed aside and even when Dad would reach over, shake a heavy (so subtly shaking) hand through Daryl’s hair, like he was trying to shake the memories right from his head, Daryl knew burns didn’t brush away like ashes.

It’s halfway through his own school’s spring break already and Daryl’s been alone with Rick since Carl left to go back to his Mom’s on Sunday. 

It’s been peaceful, relaxed, the clock on the wall ticking away time like tension. Rick’s been nothing but accommodating, doing all the things Daryl can’t bring himself to ask for as if he read the very idea of want from his mind. 

He even takes him to the field again, lets him sit and count the dandelions and says nothing about the tears budding in ocean eyes when remembrance washes him up to the shore. Open, exposed and out of his depth. 

It’s dreams mainly, not nightmares, because they never stay in one fixed state. They don’t scare Daryl, just tug into his head and shake everything about, leave him as rattled as he was before someone began to sort through the pieces. They settle down quicker than they ever used to and Daryl wonders if they’re beginning to known their place, settling into order where they so usually fell to chaos. It feels less cluttered in general, and it’s becoming easier to talk himself down from panic with less shit around to block the signals.

Maybe he finally began to get rid of some of it, forced them back into the boxes with the broken padlocks and welded it all shut.

Because in the end he can get rid of the cause of it, but the memories linger like Rick’s encouragement and the war going on between both in substantial enough to refill all the empty space Daryl has left.

Daryl’s dreams fluctuate between the past and the present, sometimes bash the two together and throw in his ever present anxiety towards the future, the sudden solidarity of having no family and nowhere to go. He has Rick, he has Maggie, but he isn’t their real family, and Daryl isn’t stupid enough to think he’d rate higher than them on any scale of importance. 

A lot of the time, Daryl wonders what would’ve happened if Rick had accepted his offer, fantasizes about it even. 

They’re never nice images, fractured minds don’t have the capacity to produce something so wholesome. They whisper promises like dreams, snatch at them before Daryl realizes they’re nightmares, puts a heavy hand around his throat and forces him into sleep, even when sounds scratch his throat raw and tears fall to wash the blood away.

A lot of the time he envisions violence, lust soaked and passionate in its pain. Imagines Rick’s hands as claws, eviscerating the skin from his muscles, tearing the rotten flesh from his bones. A sneer over ruby (blood) red lips, whispering promised words of affection, kneeling at his body like a bloody alter, like he's worshiping at a throne. Teeth kiss, bite, peel away sanctity from his collar, undress his hipbones, place bloody lips over his own and inhale passion (pain) soaked moans. He imagines embraces, sometimes. Arms that cling, that shatter his rib-cage, let fractured bone fall like snowflakes and sting like ice.

Tenderness is tentative, but sometimes Rick kisses his heart, just as it’s scarcely beating, mends it with the soft touch of fairy-tale. He reminds Daryl of love, drags the air from his lungs to smother his shout. Arms will fall, too soft to shatter, too careful to crush, the stranglehold relinquished, cradling Daryl within clouds of doubt, letting tears fall like rain to replenish the drought.

He thought about it a lot in the field, looked across at Rick as he laid back with his eyes closed in the careful sanctuary of sleep, decided something so violent couldn’t possible come from someone so serene. He’d run a careful hand over the tendons in Rick’s loosely clenched fist , the one that laid over Rick’s stomach and moved just slightly with the expansion of his lungs. His touch was as gentle as he could make it, scared to wake Rick or scared to weaken himself to any hope of continually touching something so forbidden.

If Daryl believed in God, he’d think of Eden. Make comparisons towards his likeness of Eve, and Rick towards everything forbidden he wanted to touch. He can’t decide who the snake would be, draped over Daryl’s neck like dead weight, alive enough to hiss poisons through his ears and bleed them into his thoughts.

He’d say it was Dad, but while the place he was banned from wasn’t quite sanctuary, Dad still cast Daryl from it, still seems more akin to God.

Maybe the snake was Maggie then, was nicer than anyone ever believed it to be, dragged Daryl away from oppression and into desire, took his need to obey and handed him open want instead, made out that it was a fair trade. 

It’s too late to be thinking like this, the clock on Rick’s beside table announcing a number that begins with a digitized 1 and that’s enough for Daryl to know he shouldn’t be awake enough to see it.

He lies still for a while regardless, resigned to a night of stolen sleep and ticking time.

The sound of running water draws his attention, pulling his feet to the kitchen regardless of the heavy feeling clinging to his limbs. Rick’s back is towards him when he rounds the corner, filling up a glass of water from the tap. He’s not wearing a shirt, Daryl’s been here long enough to know he never does when he sleeps, and the sweatpants he’s wearing are his favorite, the navy blue ones with the small hole just beginning to wear its way through his left knee. 

His silhouette is much more in proportion than Daryl ever considers his own to be, shoulders that compliment his hips rather than completely overbalancing them. There’s the obvious fact that his skin is smooth, no mottled marks that Daryl can see past the one in his side, dense scar tissue in the middle that disperses itself into the healthy skin around it. When Rick turns around, startling just fractionally at seeing Daryl behind him, he notices there’s a mirroring mark on his front too.

“What happened?” Daryl says, nodding his head towards the mark, Rick glancing down to check exactly what he’s looking at, almost like he barely even notices it’s there.

“Shane.” Rick says, like it’s obvious, smiles at Daryl and starts walking past him to the living room. “We went hunting, he shot me with an arrow.”

“What were you using?” Daryl asks, the fond feel of remembrance a foreign one comparatively to its usual negativity.

“Crossbows.” Rick smiles up at him as he sits down onto the couch, patting the seat beside him before Daryl can walk to the armchair. “Have you used one?”

“I have one.” Daryl admits, thinks back on his phrasing with something that feels too mournful to apply to an object. “Had, it’s probably long gone.”

Daryl rubs a hand across his eyes, can feel Rick watching him even if his view of him is momentarily lost. Daryl knows he’s a mess, can tell that his hair is probably sticking up at all angles round his head, that his eyes are probably ringed red if not shadowed, and the fact that Rick still looks so gorgeous with all of that himself makes Daryl feel even worse.

“Nightmares?” Rick guesses, once Daryl’s hand has dropped from his eyes enough to see him.

“Something like that.” Daryl runs his teeth along the calloused skin around his thumb nail, finds a loose section and pulls at it.

“Bad dreams?” Rick leans forward, gently tugs Daryl’s hand away from his mouth, subtly checking for blood when he thinks Daryl isn’t looking. 

“That’s the same thing.” Daryl says, feeling like he says that an awful lot to people who probably know better than him anyway.

Rick tilts his head to the side, and Daryl appreciates that he at least contemplates what he said. “No, bad dreams are still dreams, they had the potential to be good.”

“How do you even know all this shit?” Daryl asks, not unkindly, smiling as his favorite little half smile settles onto Rick’s own lips.

“Life.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, doesn’t sound sad either. If anything he just sounds honest, and Daryl still can’t quite work out whether Rick’s honest sounds more happy or more sad, no matter how often he’s heard it. “Teaches you a lot of shit.

Daryl brings his thumb up to his mouth again, ignoring Rick’s good humored eye roll but unable to keep his lips from curling up into a smile around his own nail. He knows that Rick knows that it’s a nervous habit, he also understands how keen Rick is to make sure he isn’t hurting himself because of it. Seeing as how Rick’s own calming method used to leave marks, Daryl supposes he can’t blame him.

“Bad dreams.” Daryl says, answering Rick’s earlier question, settling on it because it could be good, it just never really is.

“You get them often?” Rick asks, eyes flickering to Daryl’s mouth like he’s waiting for the moment he breaks the skin, ready to pull his nail from his mouth again if he does.

“No.”

“They're not as prevalent as people think they are.” And the level of understanding in his voice makes Daryl wonder whether the things Rick’s talking about come from experience. “At least until they’re the replay of something real.”

Daryl shifts on the couch, brings up a leg to lean his hand against it. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Rick says, stretching over the back of the couch and drawing Daryl’s attention to his chest, eyes once again catching on the scar resting there, just resting rather the ruining, unable to mar something so exquisite.

“Why were you up?” Daryl asks. “Bad dreams?”

Rick ponders for a minute, as Daryl had. “Nightmares.” 

“No potential?”

“Not to be good.”

Daryl trails off, not really knowing what else to say, isn’t particularly sure he has any advice that would be of any benefit to Rick. Rick himself watches Daryl, eyes taking in the sleep rustled hair, the shadows just starting to form under pale skin, eyelids that droop slightly with the will to close competing with a brain that throws everything wide open, leaves no thought untouched and under analysed. 

Rick knows those nights well, can remember the concern people throw at you every day you turn up looking more and more exhausted. The bone numbing, mind melting tiredness that drags your exhausted limbs behind a mind to active to shut down and let your body rest. It’s a war between everything you are and everything that holds you together and you’re never completely sure which one is going to give out first. 

“You okay?” Rick asked, because even though the concern hadn’t made anything better it certainly never made anything worse.

Daryl laughs. “You’ve asked me that every day this whole week.” His head shifts to the side, leaning slightly against the back of the couch, making him look even more dangerously close to unsatisfying sleep.

“Emotions are adaptive.” Rick explains, stifling a yawn against his forearm. “We adapt with the morning.”

“We shouldn’t even be up at this time in the morning.” Daryl points out, looking up to the clock on the wall, the one that runs like sand through Daryl’s fingers unless Rick’s around, the water to slow it down, let Daryl hold himself together. It’s only 1.30 and he doesn’t need to chase time so long as Rick can hold it captive for him.

“Bad dreams mean bad sleep cycles.” Rick says, looking towards the clock as Daryl does, looking back to him before Daryl manages to tear his eyes away from it.

“What about nightmares.” Daryl asks, when he feels calm enough to let time pass by unattended and looks back to Rick.

Rick smiles at him when Daryl’s eyes meet his own. “They mean no cycle, no sleep.” He shifts forward onto his elbows, lets his hand’s rub down his face and fold themselves around the back of his neck, trying to rub away the ache that settles there, push it down to his shoulders where the weight hurts most and let it linger there instead.

“You look tired.” Daryl says, only really noticing it in that moment, a second of soreness betraying a lot more than Rick likely thought it would.

“So do you.” Rick points out, glancing at Daryl around the arm that covers part of his cheek and jaw line. 

“Are you okay?” Daryl tries, changing his wording instead of his tactics, like Rick always does. Rick shrugs. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s an ‘I don’t know’.” Rick admits, not sitting up from his position so much as rolling back into the couch, his head falling down onto the back of it like he’s struggling with alertness as much as Daryl is. “You know that one?”

“Yeah.” Daryl says, isn’t sure he could ever tell Rick how much. “It sucks.”

“It does.” Rick nods his head, tapers off into silence again before a glance at his room prompts him to speak. “What were you dreaming about?”

Daryl shrugs, bends his head to cover his eyes with his bangs. “Don’t really remember it.”

“Yes you do.” How Rick reads his body language like a damn book when Daryl can barely decipher Rick’s words, he’ll never know. “It wouldn’t be bothering you this much if you didn’t.”

 _I dreamed about you. You wanted to fuck me and I let you and you ripped every piece of me apart._ It doesn’t sound like the most appropriate way of saying things, no matter how much Daryl wants to stick to the truth, dreams are too often linked to desires and the last thing Daryl wants is for Rick to treat him like a little kid with a crush on his teacher. _That’s exactly what you are._ But this isn’t a kink, it isn’t even about the sex ‘cause Daryl’s had more than enough of that to know it isn’t worth the hype. He just craves the intimacy, the connection. Even the love, but that sounds too sappy for Daryl to think about clearly, let alone say.

“It was…” He starts, tapers off. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Who was it about?” Rick asks, putting his elbow up against the back of the couch and leaning his head onto his bicep, tilting his torso round to face Daryl, which not only works as a distraction but also makes Daryl want to accept the open ears while he has them.

“Me and,” Daryl stops, bites his lips. “Someone else.”

Rick nods, doesn’t push it. “What happened?”

“I was with them.” Daryl says, thinks that sounds vague enough to get by unquestioned. 

“Sexually?” Rick asked, not noticing the slight blush to Daryl’s cheeks so much as Daryl himself can feel it’s there.

“Not really.” He wrings his hands, tries to calm himself down, not only because he’s actually telling someone, but that talking about it in general is panic inducing. “They were ripping me apart, skin, muscle, bone, it didn’t matter.”

“That sounds like a nightmare to me.” Rick says, brows furrowed just slightly and lips pulled into a frown.

“Sometimes it’s okay.” Daryl says, lets out a gush of air that wasn’t quite trapped but struggled to find its way out regardless. “A lot of the time it isn’t.” 

“Your perception of love is warped.” Rick comments, not unkindly, just trying to understand with whatever vague knowledge Daryl throws at him. “As is that of touch.”

Daryl laughs, humorless enough that Rick feels no reason to laugh along with him. “That surprises you?”

“Not surprises.” Rick says, letting out a contemplative hum as he thinks. “Saddens.”

“I don’t need your pi-“

“It’s not pity, Daryl.” Rick says, shutting down the argument before Daryl’s frayed nerves and tired sense of perception have the chance to start it. “It’s just sadness.”

“What about you.” Daryl says instead, eyes flickering to the clock. 1.40. “Your nightmare.”

“It was stupid, dreamed I was a cop, got shot.” Rick blinks strangely slowly, like halfway through his eyes decided they’d rather stay shut. Daryl supposes that’s actually pretty accurate. “Died.”

“Dying scares you?”

“Not as much as leaving people behind.” He runs a hand through his hair, makes it messier than it already was. “There are too many things I want to see.”

Daryl nods, follows the motion of the curls that Rick tucks behind his ears. “Like what?”

“Carl. I wanna see him grow up.” It’s an obvious one, seeing as how much Rick love his son, how positive Daryl is that he would do anything to protect him and make him happy. “I wanna see you when that graze is gone.”

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without an injury.” Rick says, smiles at Daryl’s confusion. “It would be nice to see you unhurt.”

 _That’s not possible._ Daryl thinks, the red, deadened scars on his back burning like they’re still open. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to crush Rick’s nightmare laden dreams.

“I want Lori to be happy.” Rick nods, like he’s realizing it himself. “Want to talk to Shane like we used to.”

He takes a moment, stares at an unspecific part of the wall like he’s seeing more there than Daryl could ever hope to. He belatedly wonders if it’s a family thing, if memories can only make things appear if they're happy. All of Daryl’s memories strip things away, so he supposes it could be true.

“I wouldn’t want to die before my Mom.” Rick swallows, looks down. “It would crush her.”

“Your Mom?” Daryl asks, opening up the chance for more information without actually asking for it.

“She’s the best women I’ve ever met.” Rick’s entire face changes when he’s happy, despite the lingering traces of tiredness that threaten to bring the whole thing crashing down. “You’d like her, she’d _love_ you.”

“What about your Dad.” It’s a tentative question, because information on this wasn’t offered and Daryl’s not particularly sure if that wasn’t for a reason.

“The best man I’ve ever met.” Rick says, and his continued happiness lightens Daryl’s heart, makes him feel like he could stay up all night if only to keep it there. “Taught me everything I know about parenting.”

Daryl nudges Rick’s arm with his elbow. “Then he must be a good Dad too.”

“He is.”

“I don’t think my Mom ever wanted to be one.” Daryl says, not completely thought out and at a pace that betrays how unexpected his own words are. He's not particularly sure why he’s mentioning it past the feeling of needing to share something of his own now Rick has. “Especially not after Merle.” 

“You think she didn’t want you?” Rick asks, and Daryl wishes he’d never spoken at the sadness that runs through his happy expression like a steam train.

“I know she didn’t.” 

Rick doesn’t try to reassure him, isn’t sure it would do anything with the pure acceptance of the whole situation, the way Daryl sounds so resigned to this being the truth. Rick wishes he could preach the opposite, reach across to Daryl and tell him his mother loved him very much, but he didn’t know the women, and what he does know of her tells him that Daryl’s probably telling the truth. It doesn’t make it right, but Rick doesn’t know how he can make it that way either.

“You’re exhausted.” He says, reaching across to push a section of Daryl’s bangs out of his eyes.

Daryl smiles. “So are you.”

“No, you’re drained.” Rick says, holds Daryl’s eyes to get the point across. “That doesn’t go away with sleep.”

“It would help.”

His smile is so tired, nearly slipping from his face with the way his muscles fight to relax and right about now Rick would do anything if only so he could sleep, so they could both sleep. In all honesty the whole situation’s thrown him off, unused to nightmares after so many years of none at all, and it’s only when Rick tries to think of why that is that he realizes how much loneliness factors into anxiety, into bad dreams, into the fact that no one can wake you if they don’t know what’s going on. Not many people start screaming in their sleep, reactions dulled by unconsciousness are often subtler. 

“Come on.” He grabs Daryl’s hand gently, pulls him up off of the couch and round to the corridor.

“Where are we going?”

Rick doesn’t explain, just pulls Daryl along into his room, walks towards the bed and pulls the covers down to rest along the edge of it, knowing the nights are hot enough now to be fine without it. He’s not completely sure of what he’s doing, in all honesty he's pretty sure it’s a bad idea and maybe if the both of them weren’t so exhausted and the whole situation had room for intimacy Rick would’ve thought longer about it. Right now he just wants to sleep, wants Daryl to sleep and moving onto the bed and lying down on his back seems right, and in this instance is innocent enough.

“Come here.” He says, opening up an arm and patting the side of the bed next to him.

Daryl hesitates, takes a step forward to the bed and stops himself. “Isn’t this a bit-?”

“Daryl, that type of tired is dangerous and all I'm trying to do is help.” Rick reassures him, sitting up and reaching across to cup a hand to the side of Daryl’s neck, brings his forehead to rest against his own like Shane and him always used to do when one of them was panicked.

“Do you trust me?”

Daryl nods, humming his affirmation slightly when he realizes he can’t move very much within the hold. It doesn't panic him to be restrained, and something about that relaxes him even more.

“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“No.” Soft, not needing to be loud for Rick to hear it loud and clear and he’s so pleased it rings with the specific clarity of complete truth Rick rarely hears from anyone, let alone from Daryl.

“Come here. Please.”

Daryl shifts, crawls forward onto the bed beside Rick and curls down onto his side, allowing Rick to shift them until Daryl’s head, legs and arms just brush against his side, his head practically pillowed on Rick’s thrown out arm. Daryl’s eye are drifting shut already, lulled by the slight pull on the ends of his hair as Rick’s arm curls to stroke through it. It should feel sexual, should feel scary, should at the very least feel wrong, but Daryl just feels comforted in a way he hasn’t felt since Merle deemed him worthy of kind touches.

“Better?”

There are no claws, there are no teeth and from this distance the steady sound of the clock stealing Daryl’s time is inaudible.

Daryl doesn’t need to speak, Rick can feel the motion of his confirmation well enough.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for every single comment, kudos and bookmark left on this story! We're nearly at 10000 hits, which is amazing! Thank you for continuing to read this story! :)

It’s four days later, and Daryl slept with Rick every night since the first one.

It should feel sexual, but it doesn’t and Daryl finds it both comforting and strangely abstract that being closer to Rick eliminates the dark desire that clung to every aspect of his dreams. Hands have barely touched enough to transform into claws, lips stretch around smiles too easily to be catching on fangs and Daryl’s skin feels too stable to be ripping apart at the seams. 

The cuts on his back are starting to scar over, scabs turning to skin that looks too old to be so fresh. Despite that, Daryl commends every cell in his body for being capable enough to repeatedly heal that which was broken, to stitch together all that was torn. It grants him a new found respect for himself, that his body can continue to try so hard to keep him together when his mind had long since found home in being broken, enjoyed the stinging touch of fractionalization and never wished for the paradise found in pieces that would never fit to that which could appreciate it. 

Daryl often finds himself studying Rick’s own scar, when he wakes up and Rick remains asleep long enough for him to explore without feeling like he’s exploiting his ability to.  
The only other scars Daryl ever saw were those resting upon skin sewn together with the same interlocking genes as his own. Mom never let him see her cigarette burns, but she left them exposed regardless, like she didn’t realize they were there unless someone else did, like her own acknowledgement meant nothing.

Merle would try to protect Daryl from Dad every time he was trying to protect himself from infection. Would let Dad have at him and lock them both in the bathroom, tell Daryl to watch carefully while alcohol burned into his back and keep watching even when the sight of blood against the yellowed bathtub made Daryl feel sick. Daryl could never be sure whether Merle told him to look as a warning of what could happen to him, or whether he knew he was helpless to protect Daryl from it anyway, was resigned to the fact that opening himself up as an exhibit for Daryl’s observation was the overall least painful way he could think to teach him how to do it himself. When the inevitability of time swept back around to Daryl and he needed to know.

Dad walked round without a shirt on too many times to count. Scarred back catching the light like macabre marble. Merle and Daryl caught sight of the mess a lot, felt the crushing realization that they’d be marked like this forever, that mental marks aren’t the only ones that linger. When Daryl’s old enough to realize what the mess means, he often looks towards Merle, another reflection in the room, another option that never quite was. The same look of unwanted pity crosses both of their faces, tells them all they need to know about what they’ll become through what Dad has. It leaves them stumped more often than not, wondering how Dad hasn’t snapped like one of those rich men on the news and shot the lot of them up, how becoming so like the person he never wanted to be hadn’t driven him off the rails yet.

He wonders if that’s what happened with Uncle Bill, if that’s why his cousins didn’t cry at the funeral, didn’t rub at each other’s backs so much as their shoulders. Not so much comforting as keeping up appearances that have already fallen too low to catch, the whole family knowing that this was the best thing that could happen to any of them. That death would be a welcome change from feeling like a killer. A killer slower than time and just as unpredictable, the type that festers into your head and makes you think dying’s the best thing about life.

Daryl can remember thinking all of it, knows Merle probably has too.

It makes him nauseous, that he was so close to the edge and felt so balanced there, that he’d thought clinging to danger was the safest thing he could do. 

It doesn’t feel like an epiphany, so much as a slowly encroaching sense of awareness and as Daryl lightly traces the scar on Rick’s chest he wonders how he thought he was ever doing such a good job of surviving when he was so close to oblivion, how clinging to the moments before death every second of the day felt like establishing distance between himself and dying. 

Thinks it might be because the transition to living felt like a leap of faith and Daryl’s foundations had been about as stable as sand, fell out from beneath as soon as he thought to jump.

Now that his feet feel as firmly planted as they ever have been it finally feels like it was worth it, although that level of stability had been surviving alongside the constant stabilizing factor of Rick Grimes and, now that school is starting up again, Daryl's dreading the inevitability of being left to fend for himself and stumbling right back into open free fall. 

The tell-tale sign of Rick waking up is the way his head drops to the side, his torso shifting just slightly to be more on his side than his back and when Daryl feels the ridiculously comfortable feeling of Rick breathing against his hair, it acts as enough of a warning for him to stop touching something he has no right to touch in any way that isn’t indirect.

“Morning.” Rick says, not moving past the gentle shift of his lips, the breath that fans over Daryl’s hair and feels like a verbal caress, a kiss that never connects to the skin that yearns for it.

“Mornin’” Daryl replies, shifting down the bed slightly so he can rest his chin on his arm and gaze up at Rick, take in the picture with the worship it deserves.

“School today.” He remarks, unfazed by Daryl’s grunt. “How do you feel about that?”

“Why’s it always about feelings?” Daryl asks, his chin digging into his arm with the motion of his lips, a pain that’s as reassuringly rhythmic as it is annoying.

“They influence everything we do.” Rick explains, as he always does when Daryl asks questions that didn’t necessarily warrant an answer so much as act in a way that intended to throw Rick off of his thought track, Daryl doesn’t mind it, finds himself surprised by how much Rick knows every day he speaks to him. “I like to know the influences you subject yourself to are happy ones.”

Daryl rolls onto his back, uses a forearm as the cradle for his head, being closer to Rick’s torso than the pillows and unwilling to shift enough to reach them. He rubs a finger down the buttons of his shirt, opens the top one to alleviate some of the damp heat the steadily rising Georgian sun is inflicting on the whole room.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Rick never questions his choice of attire when he sleeps, despite the fact that the weather has been reaching ridiculously hot levels that stretch through into the night with a barely noticeable drop of temperature accompanying the disappearance of the sun. Rick himself feels like a furnace at night, gives Daryl a new found understanding of why he sleeps half naked, prompts him to briefly wonder if the ‘half’ is only because Daryl’s in the house. 

The question is one Daryl dreads, even despite the fact that he’s never had someone to notice and ask about it, let along someone he cared about enough to offer a straight answer to. That Rick doesn’t push it, doesn’t even ask even though Daryl’s sure his ever-present hunt for understanding practically forces the words to his lips, is probably one of the most considerate things Daryl’s ever experienced, lets him forget all about the reasoning behind it himself and pretend it’s normal to suffocate yourself for the sake of secrecy.

“I feel anxious.” Daryl admits, answering Rick’s question only when he’s sure he actually wants to talk about it. 

Rick tilts his head down from where he’d been glancing out the window, checking the clock on his way round to make sure they have enough time. “Why?”

Daryl looks to the clock too, watches the minute tick by in slow motion before he speaks. “I haven’t been on my own for a while.”

“You’re not on your own now.” Rick says. “I’m still there when you can’t see me.”  
“Too far away to catch me.” Daryl says, almost accidentally until he realizes it’s the point he really wanted to get across.

“What are you falling from?” Rick asks, because of course he can understand Daryl’s language like he’s fluent in it.

Daryl shrugs, feels the edge of his shoulder brush against Rick’s ribs. “Everything I have.”

“You’re already on the ground.” Rick answers, like everything Daryl tried so hard to work out on his own had always worked out in Rick's head all along.

“I know.” Daryl says, tilting his head all the way back so he can see Rick, watches him smile at the sight. From the angle he’s at it looks like a frown, but there’s no mistaking happiness when you know what you’re looking for. “I don’t wanna put myself somewhere stupid to get through the day, end up falling all over again.”

“You’ve done it once before.” Rick reaches over for the alarm, switches it off before it has the chance to ruin the humanity of the room, free from anything artificial just for the moment and unwilling to let that go.

“I ain’t a cat.” Daryl points out, raises his eyebrows at Rick. “I don’t get nine lives.”

“You know I’ll be there, right?” Rick says. “If you need me.”

Daryl watches him sit up, tilts his head back down so Rick stays in his line of sight. Rick himself presses a hand to one side of his body, leans over Daryl slightly so he can see him properly, lowering his head on one side to elevate the crooked angle Daryl’s place himself at. It almost makes Daryl laugh, seeing as ‘crooked’ is a pretty good description for everything he does, and Rick straightening it out is becoming just as commonplace.

“Maggie and Glenn and Hershel, they’re all there too.” Rick continues, rolls up the edge of one sweatpants to rub at his ankle, points at Daryl's head just slightly. “They’re not gonna let you wander so far in there you get lost.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” _What if I’m already lost, that this is what’s left and I can’t remember what remains to be found._

“Then we’ll go count dandelions.” Rick smiles, watches Daryl smile back with something approaching tenderness but still closer to satisfaction.

Daryl lets out a breath, well versed to the new ease with which the air infiltrates and disperses from his lungs, Still well enough aware of himself to fear a re-occurrence of the strangulation, the suffocation, the panic he dealt with for such a long time that still clings to the edges of his awareness as easily as it completely engulfed them.

“How do you make it sound so easy?”

“Because I’ve been here.” Rick taps Daryl’s head, an easy way to reference something that can never be completely described with words. “It’s logical, when you look back on it.”

“Relaxing?” Daryl asks, feeling about as close to permanently achieving it as he ever has.

Rick smiles, approving of that train of thought. “Not stressing in the first place.” 

“That’s the trick?” Daryl sits up himself, slowly to avoid head-butting Rick if his reflexes don’t live up to scratch. They do anyway, but he looks grateful for the consideration.

“Not a trick.” Rick corrects, the lilt to his voice a playful one. “Just another life lesson.”

“You’re full of damn life lessons.” Daryl grumbles, sliding his way off the bed and trying his best to stretch without pulling at skin that lost a lot of its ability to a long time ago, has had to adapt to growing bone and forming muscle long enough to make it all tight.

“I’ve learnt a lot in life.” Rick says, watching him without making a movement to get up himself. “Teaching that to someone who’s trying so hard to learn seems like a good idea.”

Daryl smirks, arms still held casually over his head. “There’s the teacher.”

“It’s his first day back on the job.” 

They’ve progressed to the point where getting ready is fluid, they work around each other easily and even with the slight change in timing and preparation for the school day they manage to work it out as they usually do. 

Rick gets dressed in the bedroom once he’s managed to pull himself from the bed, Daryl grabbing his own clothes and disappearing to the bathroom, always waiting until Rick’s looking away to leave, like he still thinks the question will fall from Rick’s lips if he sees something to tempt it out. Daryl finishes by the time Rick’s starting to make pancakes, walking into the kitchen and clinging to the edge, working around Rick to grab cutlery, plates, glasses, feeling like he knows this apartment better than he ever knew the trailer and realizing he wouldn’t want it any other way.

They avoid each other like magnets repel, come together like attraction when all is said and done and breakfast’s laid out on the bar, quiet smiles and silent conversation shared over the top of orange juice and around mouthfuls of food.

Rick looks at Daryl and thanks any God who cares to listen that the loneliness of the apartment is heavy enough to sink into sea blue eyes and never be seen again, sit like a shipwreck and wave with the swelling of the tide, never corroding enough to fight its way back to the surface and steal Rick’s peace.

Daryl himself see’s nothing but companionship, eternally grateful that his forced individualism evaporated and floated away into baby blues that could war with the sky and win, fine as particles and unable to mar the happiness ever present in Rick’s smile, sitting on clouds like it’s weightless, hanging next to Daryl’s rotted tightrope like they always belonged together.

Daryl’s worry feels like it’s up there as well, or maybe it’s running across dandelion fields, like all his anxiety ever wanted was peace of its own. 

The trip to school is as uneventful as usual, despite this being the first time he’s driven in with Rick. He’d queried whether that was weird, what people would think, but Rick assured him as easily as he always did, told him that he always got there stupidly early anyway, that if that wasn’t the case and Daryl felt uncomfortable he’d circle back and drop him round the corner. 

Daryl hadn’t thought that he’d have enough time to explain that he wasn’t worried about himself, that he only hoped anyone who saw them wouldn’t be able to see the emotions Daryl refuses to label clinging to his face every time he looks at Rick, that he didn’t want people to think badly of Rick for who he was with, assume the worst about him.

In the end the school is empty when they pull up and something in that reminds Daryl that his worries are often unfounded.

When they do get out of the car, Rick waves to a woman Daryl previously hadn’t seen sitting on the outside bench. She waves back, brushing a section of short, grey hair out of her face while she does so. Her eyes align on Daryl and he has a horrible moment where he realizes that she must be a teacher, that she’d just seen him get out of Rick’s car and surely that’s a blatant slap to the face that something’s going on. Instead she just smiles, a smile so wide Daryl can make it out clearly even at the distance he is from her. She lifts a hand, pointedly waves at him and if Rick’s elbow didn’t gently nudge into his own he probably would’ve forgotten to wave back.

“That’s Carol.” Rick says as he waves, nudging Daryl further towards the school building once his arm has lowered back to his side.

Daryl looks back at him as they walk. “Is she a teacher?”

“Psychology.”

“Won’t she…” Daryl bites his lip, trails off, and Rick knows that feeling well because he’s been trying to stop what could easily become rumors tuning into fully fledged reality an awful lot recently.

“She knows about you.” Rick says, continuing at Daryl’s questioning glance. “I needed some advice.”

“Advice about what?” Daryl asks, trying to sound uninterested but probably sounding as anxious as he’s beginning to feel.

Rick looks at him, stopping in front of his classroom. “About how to help.”

Daryl nods, supposes it makes a lot of sense that Rick would’ve felt very much out of his depth. He actually feels quite flattered, that Rick cared enough to talk to another teacher to try and help him, that he wanted to succeed in doing it even though he had no idea how to go about it in the first place. 

“Sure you’re gonna be okay?” Rick asks, placing a hand on the handle to the classroom door as he does.

“Yeah.” Daryl says, shrugging his rucksack a little further onto his shoulder. "What about you?"

"I know this place better than my apartment, I can manage it." Rick says with a sigh. “If you need anything-”

“I can come to you.” Daryl interrupts, not unkindly, a smile to prove it. “Or Hershel, or Maggie, or Glenn.”

Rick smiles back, props his door open just slightly before speaking again. “I think you’re gonna be just fine.”

“Is that what Carol told you?” Daryl jokes, smile growing faster than dandelions at Rick’s responding laugh.

“Yes.” He admits. “But it’s also what I’ve been telling myself.”

They part ways soon after, Daryl heading to homeroom in the most relaxed state he can ever remember being, walking in a way that's much more surefooted than the last time he’d roamed these hallways, safe in the knowledge that he can’t fall from the tightrope when it can’t even touch him anymore. 

The day passes much the same, and even the curious looks from the other kids don’t worry him as much as they used to, the calming thoughts of dandelion fields and sky blue eyes calming him when his anxiety threatens a rise, clutches at the edge of his mind frame and tries to warp it back into something twisted enough to get lost in again, whispers about tying off all the exits so he can’t get out a second time. 

He sits at his tree during lunch, because the bark at his back reminds him of the forest and even the lack of hunting and the mourn coated longing for his crossbow can’t completely deplete the happiness that engulfs him as he sits beneath branches so established in their life, bright green and blowing in the breeze, painting themselves against the blue sky like they're reaching for it, and Daryl knows the feel of searching for something that beautiful, something so very out of reach to be so in touch with everything he feels.

“Daryl!” He hears, looks to the side to see Maggie and Glenn making their way over to him, clutching each other’s hands and smiling ear to ear.

He doesn’t say anything straight away, lets them walk over and perch themselves on either side of him, keeping him safe and controlled in between them, feeling like the safety nets he always imagined them to be. 

“How have you been?” Glenn asks, smiling in Daryl’s direction and moving his bag down behind him to settle against that rather than the bark.

“Good.” Daryl answers, nodding his head as if agreeing with his own opinion. If he thinks about it, he’s only recently begun to listen to it anyway. “I’ve been good.”

“Maggie told me you were okay, but I wanted to see for myself.” Glenn says, smiling eyes flickering to Maggie and back to Daryl.

Daryl smiles as well, glances to Maggie just as Glenn does. “Maggie was right.”

“I can see that.”

“What do you mean?” Daryl asks, furrows his brow but can’t quite convince the smile to drop with them.

“The smile.” Glenn points, smiles himself as if in explanation. “That’s new.”

It makes him a little self-conscious, but even then the smile doesn’t want to go away, stays firmly fixed on his face and refuses to move, feeling like the very muscles in his face are glued to the shape they’ve adopted, deciding between themselves that they’re unwilling to move even as his thumb comes up and catches itself between his lips, the nail fitting snugly between his teeth.

“It’s a good new.” Maggie asks, like she can see the self-analysis behind the smile.

Daryl drops his thumb to his lap as he looks at her, remembering that for all the relaxation in the world some habits will always pull an embarrassed flush to his cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.” She tilts her head towards Glenn, doesn’t mention anything more specific about her grieving. “I had this one with me.”

The smile pulls itself back into its favored place again, and Daryl thinks they're such a good couple, so obviously in love with each other and happy. It makes him think of Rick, despite the obvious difference between the two of them, makes him wonder what would happen if age was nothing more than a word thrown around to give a label to how long something’s existed and Rick wasn’t twice as good as Daryl could ever hope to deserve. 

Still, he can’t help the small unraveling realizations solidifying itself inside the part of his mind he so usually ignored, the feelings that shouted their names at him like they’d never forgotten what they meant. 

“Daryl Dixon, who are you thinking about?” Maggie asks, tilting her head to look at him.

Daryl tilts his own head, more in confusion than inquisitiveness. “What?”

“Don’t think I don’t know a smile like that when I’ve seen it on my own reflection for a year.” Maggie answers, laughs slightly at his continued confusion.

“What?” He says again, surprised that someone who usually makes so much sense could have a meaning so elusive. 

“Since I met Glenn.” Maggie explains, shaking her head when he still doesn’t get the hint. “You like someone.”

Daryl shakes his head, not quite panicked but feeling the cold grasp of it at the edge of his mental horizon. “I really don’t.”

“Yes you-”

“Mags.” He says, shakes his head when she meets his eyes. “Can this be one of the things I don’t have to talk about?”

She studies him for a moment, must see the storm threatening to break through a long established and painfully fragile calm, must know enough about everything Daryl’s ever felt to read it as what it is.

“Yes.” She says, smiles over at him and leans round so she can face him, places her elbows onto her knees. “But you have to make a trade.”

“That sounds worse than answering the question.” Glenn comments, nudging Daryl just slightly to make sure he knew he was talking to him, Daryl smiles despite himself, nudges back to let Glenn know he got it.

“Shh.” Maggie says, pointing a finger at Glenn as she does before looking back to Daryl. “You just have to answer a different question.”

“How is that a trade?” Glenn laughs, making Daryl shake his head at the both of them.

Maggie tuts. “Daddy and I used to play this all the time.”

“Go on then.” Daryl says, overlapping whatever Glenn began to say before he was forced into the middle of a quarrel.

“How was your brother?”

It’s not a question he was expecting, and it takes him a minute to remember why Maggie even knows about it, that she’s actually the only reason Daryl himself knew about it. He has to take a bit of time just to think about an answer, not wanting to pull forward too much of her concern when the end of lunch is drawing closer and the threat of panic is just beginning to fall back behind the horizon, slip back into sky blue eyes and stay there.

“Not good.” He decides on. “Not himself.”

“Did he-”

“He wouldn’t hurt me.” Daryl assures her, thinks back to what Rick had said about it all, refers to his judgement as he so often does. “He’s away, not gone.”

“What’s even the dif-” Glenn starts, and Daryl can tell it’s not a mean spirited question even before Maggie decides it could be interpreted as one and reaches across to slap Glenn’s arm lightly. 

“Away means he can come back.” Daryl explains, to the both of them.

Maggie nods, like she already knew. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“I hope he will.” Daryl says, so painfully honest, so unwilling to even contemplate any of the numerous reasons he wouldn’t. “Merle’s hard to think about at the moment.”

Maggie looks down to the grass patch to the side of her, shakes her head and lets out a breath of air. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid trade.”

“No it wasn’t.” Daryl objects, taps her arm slightly with the outer edge of his wrist until she looks back at him. “Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.”

“You know what, Daryl Dixon?” Maggie’s smile lights up the shade of the tree like direct sunlight, and Daryl can understand why something so bright always chased away his shadows so easily.

“What?” He asks, glances to Glenn to see him smiling too, like he was in on a secret all along and Daryl didn’t realize he was even part of it.

“I think that sounds like living.”

They stay with him for the rest of lunch, and Maggie looks ridiculously proud of him every time he speaks, smiles, even when he does nothing more than sit in silence and just _listen._

Daryl makes it through the day with the memory of a smile even if one doesn’t always linger on his face, and the fact that things seem so much better from this new perspective convinces him that finding it was the best thing he’s ever done. 

The end of the day is his favorite, peaceful as dandelion fields, in a classroom that no longer feels like a mausoleum display of all his mistakes, friends that happily label themselves as such to either side of him and, most importantly, a smile sent in his direction reaching all the way up to the baby blue eyes that make all his problems feel so very far away.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the continued support on this story! We're over 600 kudos, 400 comments, 30 bookmarks and 10000 hits! Seeing as this upload makes this story over 100,000 words long, I think it was a good time to mention all that and thank every single one of you!
> 
> The romance is just about establishing itself (I struggle with romance so brace yourselves), I'm sorry if it's a little crap. :)
> 
> Rick's struggle may seem over the top, but please remember he's dealing with the trouble of painting who he knows to be a severely abused Daryl, in a light that is romantic as much as sexual. He's just got to work that romance bit out! :) Or in which Shane was supposed to offer lighthearted conversation and things get deep instead. :)

It’s Friday by the time Rick has enough of a chance to sit down and think.

Daryl’s in the shower, something that’s quite commonplace recently and Rick’s beginning to realize that for all the rugged edges and torn shirts, Daryl likes to stay clean.

It makes a lot of sense that someone who could remove themselves from everything they were associated with would have fundamental things that they hated about it, smaller than the reasons they left but a large part of the continual desire to stay away. Rick can only imagine how often Daryl felt ‘dirty’ enough to have such a careful consideration towards staying clean, wonders if there was a reason behind that perceived ‘dirt’, if it was physical dust transcending itself onto cleanliness, or a mental accumulation of everything Daryl considers wrong with himself.

A lot of the time he finds himself drawn to ideas that remain largely unfounded but embellish themselves with a sense of truth he struggles to ignore. He’s drawn to the first time he actively conversed with Daryl, something he’d largely ignored thinking about in order to prevent his own frustration overwhelming him. It sits with no small amount of suspicion that Daryl’s first instinctual response to Rick’s dismissal was the offer of sex.

That sex was the basis of his persuasion is something that makes Rick feel vaguely sick, not because of Daryl, never because of Daryl, more because of whatever sequence of events established that as a working method. It makes him wonder how deep the dirt reaches, insidious ink that crawls and crumbles and consumes. 

Maybe unwanted touches linger even longer than marks, maybe that which disappears so easily doesn’t wash away so much as burrow deeper. Has Rick been looking at bruises this whole time and thinking them so temporarily dark, not even realizing how deep they must settle, to stretch through layers of skin and still look so black at the surface. 

It makes Rick wonder how many people have seen the root cause of everything he’s trying so hard to decipher, how many just took what they wanted and did nothing about what was left behind and broken, cared so little for cracks and fragments, perhaps just wondered how Daryl’s skin remained so soft when it felt so sharp. 

Rick feels sick at himself, a lot of the time. That the care he has for Daryl could transcend into whatever twisted game of manipulation his head keeps fantasizing about. The number of times a soft touch turned sensual in all but the physicality of it, telling Rick to touch and take and treasure. The number of midnight observations Daryl’s never been partial too, just Rick sitting awake and trying to calculate the exact circumference of his face, the volume of his lips, the angles of his cheekbones.

The ratio of blushes to bruises that always tilts to the painful side of the spectrum too fast for Rick to grasp it and pull it back.

Then there’s the mechanics of it, that which makes Daryl Dixon so irresistible to every factor of Rick Grimes’ observations. The rusted clogs that clasp together so unevenly, but still manage to keep themselves moving, the spark plug of his heart, exploding in the dark and washing out the bruises that just threaten color beneath his skin, burning out through blood vessels and soldering them back together before anything can spill back into brightness. 

The wrench that tightens Daryl’s nerves, tightens them to the point that Rick barely has a hope of relaxing them.

He’d like to say he hadn’t thought about Daryl sexually, would even like to reason it away with excess frustration and a lack of any other available release for it, but Daryl was something that hit Rick in the face and then retreated, caught his attention enough to interest him and then denied the interest, crept back into his awareness slowly, fearing rejection from someone who’d already accepted everything he was. 

There’s something about the fact that he’s even slightly similar to the people who hurt Daryl that makes him believe he’ll hurt him, that if he gets the chance he’ll do nothing more than add to the dirt and simultaneously lose the ability to help cleanse him of it.

The teacher in him reminds him of Daryl’s age, the father of his fractionalized, dangerously unstable psyche, his human nature in general reminding him of nurture, or caring for those who know nothing of it.

Then there’s the other part of him, the one left unlabeled for fear of what Rick would read from it, the one that says shit like _‘age is just a number’_ and _‘how can you expect to heal him if you’re not even helping.’_

Water startles Rick away from his thoughts, the muffled sound of droplets impacting ceramic calling to him from the bathroom, reminding him that Daryl still spends an awful lot of time with a first aid kit before even considering getting into the water.

It’s probably a mixture of the solitude and the sound cancelling out any possibility of Daryl overhearing a word he says, not any more than he could work out his thoughts from the look on his face, that makes him reach over to his mobile and dial Shane’s number.

Shane doesn’t seem like an altogether good choice for a heart to heart, even advice that doesn’t stop at getting someone into bed, but he has an uncanny ability to know Rick inside and out, to make him laugh even when there’s no humor in the situation and Rick likes to think that a little light-heartedness towards all this might elevate the heavy feeling of guilt. That, and Shane’s name sounds enough like a physically representation of his shame to make sense.

“Rick?” He asks, the blow of air over what Rick can only imagine to be a cup of coffee echoing over the line.

“Hey Shane.”

“Hi.” Shane responds, slowly, the silence that follows awkward, drawn out and reflecting enough of the accidental marks etched onto their friendship enough to discourage either of them from filling it. “Have I done something…?”

“No.” Rick says, props his head against his shoulder and holds the phone there. “I just wanted to talk.”

Shane pauses for another second, the sound of him drinking all Rick has to go on for a while. “Is this about Lor-?"

“It’s not about Lori, Shane.” He interrupts, tries to fathom out what he’s even trying to talk about himself. “Not even about-” 

He trails off, doesn’t even know how to get the words out in an order that makes sense with the mess his heads makes of everything he wanted to say, remembers that Shane is a damn cop just as everything else in the apartment crashes into him and reminds him of his collective wrongdoings. A sigh is the only thing that feels doable, and even that was a struggle to get out around the vague tightness swelling in his throat, something that feels less like panic and more like the precursor to it, the tears that always made breathing difficult before the chemical imbalance of his brain and lungs did it for him.

“You alright?” Shane says, much easier than the silted conversation of before, 15 years down the line and still able to tell when Rick’s losing his mind.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Rick admits, swallows to rid himself of the lump, forces the air past it because he knows he can if he just focuses enough on doing it.

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, not a mind reader no matter the perception forged from years of friendship.

“I’ve fucked up Shane.” _I’m fucked up, Shane._

Shane hums over the line, the sound of shifting letting Rick know he’s settling in for the long haul. “You feeling anxious again Buddy?”

“No.” Rick admits, breaths coming just that little bit quicker but unable to actual realize that they are, sure the rhythm’s exactly the same but the air just isn’t cooperating with his lungs. “This feel worse. This is so much worse, this is fucking disgusting.”

“Whoa, hold up a second.” Shane says, soothing, sounding like the echo of words in the breeze, the smell of dandelions carried through forest air. “What’s wrong Rick?”

“I’m just…”

His hand’s tapping absentmindedly against his leg, reminding him of motion and rhythm, of control and coordination. It makes his wish for an elastic, the bite of it against his wrist always forcing the rhythm, making him focus, counting down the time till he could breathe again with a gentle ache and the sharp motion of continual and unavoidable hits. He’d always been less able to avoid the things that hurt him.

“Stop that.” Shane says, sharper, like the connection they always had isn’t so frayed, like they aren’t hanging on by a thread despite all of Rick’s good intentions and forgiveness and Shane was able to reach right in and read everything Rick’s written in panicked scrawl. Shaking the dust from his decorum and shaking him along with it, re-establishing that sense of self that so easily slips right from human minds, makes them animalistic and instinctual.

“I wasn’t-”

“I know.” It sounds as exasperated as it sounds encouraging and Rick remembers how much Shane hated that habit, how much he hated anything that hurt Rick, likewise for Rick’s hatred of anything that hurt Shane. It’s funny when he thinks about it, wonders what slipped to make then hurt each other so much they hated themselves. “Stop thinking about it.”

Rick does his best, but trying his hardest always has been a little bit fickle.

Shane takes a deep breath on the other side of the line, lets it out through partially closed lips. “Is this about that boy?”

“How the hell do you even know that?” Rick asks, wonders if the connections only burnt out on his side as he runs a hand over his temples, rubs away the slight wetness that’d accumulated against his hairline. 

“Lori told me he was living with you.” Shane answered, like that isn’t the bit that matters but counts towards the answer anyway. “And I think I know you well enough to work out what this is about.”

Rick tilts his head up from where it had been holding the phone, moving his hand to grab it. “What’s this about?”

“You like him.” Shane says, surely not able to feel the way Rick’s breath catches, but definitely able to hear it, smart enough to know it’s not a remnant of panic past. “That the problem, you like him?"

Rick thinks of what to say, gets stuck on the obvious. “I’m his teacher Shane.”

“Rick how many of our teachers did I fuck?” Shane laughs, no doubt still hoping this can be solved with some reminiscing and humor. “Do I seem worse for wear?"

“No, that’s not-” Rick grabs for words, and for all the years he spent earning an English Master’s degree he certainly isn’t living up to it recently. “I don’t want to fuck him, I want to-”

“Love him?” Shane hands him the word like a gift. “How is that a bad thing Rick?”

“I’m still his teacher.”

“That’s what you’re gonna cling to?” It’s disbelieving, unaccepted and Shane sounds baffled by Rick’s stressed logic. “Your job’s gonna stop you going for it?”

“I’m an authority figure Shane, that’s practically rape.” Rick sighs, runs a hand over his lips like it’ll make the words disappear and let him escape the implications.

“We both know that you’d never rape anyone Rick.” The sound of a TV being turned off in the background, complete consideration given to the conversation. “That ain’t you.”

“It’s still abusing authority.”

Shane grunts. “From what I’ve heard, and excuse me if I’m wrong, I’m pretty sure that kid knows what abuse is.”

“You still call him a kid though.” Rick points out, feeling even worse at the childlike connection someone who’s never met Daryl can make so instinctively, the moral reasons why this is so, so wrong. “That _means_ something Shane.”

“You keep talking about yourself like you’re a pedophile Rick, like you’re a rapist for wanting to love someone, we both know that ain’t true.”

“He’s seventeen.” Rick stresses, emphasis on every syllable, spitting every word like a self-fulfilled curse. “He’s six years older than Carl.”

“He’s above the age of consent Rick.” Shane argues, and Rick knows he’s rubbing a hand over his head even if he can’t see him. “He can make that choice, Carl can’t, that’s a difference.”

“It doesn’t feel like a difference.” The phone slips slightly from his hand, passed over to the opposite one to alleviate the cramp. “It feels like forcing the issue on someone who doesn’t have the option to refuse it.”

Shane sounds as confused as Rick’s entire moral compass has been. “Because he lives with you?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” _Not that I’d be comfortable letting him go back to._ “If I force the issue he’ll just deal with being uncomfortable.”

“How do you know he’d be uncomfortable Rick?” Shane asks, unable to even fathom why Rick thinks anyone could be uncomfortable around him, that any one was immune to the aura of calmness that pretty much always engulfs Rick Grimes, ever since he kicked anxiety in the damn teeth 15 years ago. “From what Lori’s said the kid looks at you like you’re the only thing he has.”

“Exactly.” Rick says, almost desperate for Shane to understand, sure that at this moment he would honestly prefer Shane calling him sick, calling him twisted, then trying to convince him of the unlikelihood of either. “I can’t fuck that up, I can’t leave him on his own again.”

“How do you know that it would?” Shane argues, either not hearing or not acknowledging the unspoken plea. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“I-”

Everyone keeps falling into the allegation that Rick’s responsible for the silence, that not initiating it is as bad as ignoring Daryl, disregarding him. A wasted opportunity. No one quite cares for Rick’s wasted breath, not wasted because he doesn’t want to speak but because the words fall too quickly to reach their intended. A lot of the time Daryl feels unreachable, placed on a pedestal high above the level Rick could ever reach, frozen in the mausoleum of a classroom, still stuck in the stature of offers and failures and regrets that will follow Rick and crush him every time he falls.

Sometimes it feels like speaking a foreign language, only able to catch stolen segments of conversation, or deciphering only certain amounts of everything Daryl says. It feels like every word is so loaded, that the information is there and Rick just hasn’t unlocked enough of the meaning to understand it. 

How does he explain a concept that’s just as unreachable as Daryl himself, in a language he can scarcely understand?

“I don’t know how.”

“Rick-” Shane starts.

“No.” Rick has to take a breath, his shoulders rising on their own accord in helplessness. “How do I say something like that, Shane!”

“Sitting here talking to me sure as hell ain’t gonna do it Rick!”

Shane almost shouts it and the fall to silence from that kind of volume leaves impact on them both, Rick’s strained breaths the only sound over the line. It sounds like seventeen year old Rick, sat in a dandelion field with a welt on his wrist and a stone lodged somewhere in his lungs. Something about the recognition of that must pull at Shane, tugs at heartstrings that always played a little too easily for Rick Grimes. 

“What are you so afraid of?” He asks, braking into the labored breathing like sheet music, words accompanying the rhythm, speaking slowly to tempt it down to real time.

Rick’s shrug is almost audible, shifting fabric sliding against leather. “He’s been hurt a lot.”

Shane sighs, wonders how someone so perceptive can be so damn blind. “You’re not like them Rick.”

“I don’t want to end up like them.” Whisper soft and desperate.

“Can you imagine hurting him?” Shane asks.

Rick would never. “Not on purpose.” 

“Accidents don’t count Rick.” Shane says, the smile almost audible in his voice, speaking to Rick like he had when they were both young, when his parents split up and he suddenly developed a new understanding about love, about life.

“They do if they could’ve been avoided.” Rick argues, just like he had back then, young and impulsive and dreaming of things bigger than the world could even hope to achieve.

Shane tuts, more contemplatively then accusatory. “You’ll give up your happiness for aversion?” 

“If it means keeping his intact.”

“Rick.” Shane laughs, choking off into a sigh half way through, rubbing a hand against the inner corners of his eyes. “You have to listen to yourself.”

“I know, I sound-” _like a damn pedophile, like a stalker, like an ab-_

“So unlike an abuser.” Shane cuts in, that element of disbelieving humor still present in his tone. “You sound like you’d give him the skin off of your back.”

 _No, no Shane, you don’t understand._ “It’s wrong.”

“Love isn’t wrong Rick.” Shane says, like he can’t believe he even has to explain this, like he can’t see anything wrong with the whole situation. “Me sleeping with your wife was wrong, but you said it was okay because we were happy.”

“That’s different.” Rick answers, exasperated, realizing that Shane wasn’t going to stop until he had Rick dead set on making a terrible decision.

Shane sighs. “I love Lori.”

“Exactly.”

“You love him.”

 _Is that what it is?_ Rick thinks, wondering if his thoughts had that edge, if admiration had that care, if desire had that kindness. Rick knows what love feels like, can look at his son and count all the ways he learnt it. But something about losing his wife and losing Shane has thrown him off kilter, made him question if anything he knew that wasn’t born into being that way was ever right.

“Does he want it too?” Shane asks, shifting slightly on the other end.

“I don’t even know.” Rick admits, rubs a hand across his eyes to wipe away something that could be tears as easily as it was sweat. “He’s been hurt a lot Shane.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t know the difference between hurt and help Rick.” It’s practically whispered over the line, heartfelt and helping. “The fact that he knows so much of one, surely that just means the difference will be obvious.”

Rick shakes his head. “What if it isn’t?”

“You know love Rick, you can identify it.” Rick can imagine that if Shane was here right now he’d be pulling his forehead against his own, speaking the words so closely Rick has no hope of misunderstanding them. “He could be feeling that right now and not know what it means.”

“Why are you being so helpful?” Rick asks, not even sure if ‘helpful’ is the right word considering what he’d wanted from the conversation.

“What?”

“You hate him.”

“I don’t hate the kid Rick.” Shane says, almost sounding offended if Rick didn’t know it took a lot more than that to offend someone like Shane. “I hate his family, what they do to themselves. I can appreciate someone wanting to make something better of their life.”

“I told you about it all Shane.” Rick pushes, referencing the dinner so long ago, where family was intact and friends were too. “I told you about it and you laughed.”

“Rick.” Shane starts, tapers off like he had no idea what to say.

“I said a seventeen year old boy offered me sex and you _laughed._ ”

Shane falls to silence, falls because he can’t grab a handhold on what to say. The tone in Rick’s voice tells him of pain, ricocheted off past conversations and rebounded round a kitchen neither of them have stepped foot in for a long time. It makes Shane wonder how much of this could’ve been avoided with compassion, if humor forced into hurtful situations was never a character flaw Shane developed too long ago to change.

“I’m sorry Rick.” He says and it doesn’t even feel like it’s forced.

Rick laughs, low and lethargic. “You already apologized.”

“Not about this.” 

It doesn’t make it much better, doesn’t undo all that unraveled with their argument, all that fell apart because of failing friendship, a minute of argument that shook (but didn’t quite shatter) years of bond. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Rick says, taking the conversation away from them, bringing it back to what it was supposed to be.

“Oh brother, it’s damn obvious.” _Obvious as abuse and you missed that too._

“What is?” Rick asks, tries to rub the thought out of his head through his temple.

“That you should tell him.” Shane says, shifting on the other edge of the line, what Rick hopes isn’t a betrayal of impatience.

“I should tell someone, who for all I know has been sexually abused, that I’m sexually attracted to them.” Rick asks, bittersweet sarcasm dripping like honey off every word, the tackiness of it trying it’s best to stick Rick’s tongue to his teeth, leave him voiceless now that his lungs have found a way to combat breathlessness. 

“There’s more than sex there Rick.” Shane says, humming slightly as he thinks. “You always talk about maturity.” He pauses again, whether for dramatics of for consideration, Rick doesn’t know. “You say it ain’t age, it’s experience.”

Rick nods, even though Shane can’t see him, is resolved in his own teachings to stick to one most frequently taught.

“He’s mature enough to know love Rick.” Shane stresses, sounding so fondly exasperated towards everything Rick is that he can’t help but smile. “He should be old enough to have experienced it. Ain’t it a little sad that he hasn’t?”

Shane doesn’t push for an answer, Rick doesn’t give him one. Silence is something they never had time for in previous conversations, so much to say and so little time to say it, excitable and impressionable and young. Quiet interrupts them now, rather than each other and the silence on the line sounds so final that Rick contemplates hanging up before Shane speaks again.

“Tell me what you see, when you look at him.”

“Shane-”

“Tell me, go on.” Shane pushes, and Rick can almost imagine him pulling a hand up onto his couch and leaning his temple against it, staring at the wall like he’s imagining Rick there.

Rick licks his lips, tries to put words to something that outweighs all meaning.

“He’s got eyes like the ocean.” He decides, figures it seems like the most accurate description. “When he cries it looks like it's overflowing.”

Shane hums. “It’s hard to hold back the ocean.”

“No.” Rick says, smiles. “It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“Tell me more.” Shane says, shifting just slightly.

“He gets embarrassed about his smile.” Rick says, puts a hand over his own like he’s mirroring the movement. “Like he thinks it doesn’t deserve to be there.”

Shane hums again, encouraging. “Go on.”

“His hair looks gold in the sun.” _The sun can’t hold a candle to him, not surrounded by dandelions and looking so free._ “Looks like sunbeams caught in it and didn’t want to leave."

“Keep going.”

“His shoulders are so broad, must be about double his waist.” It’s a little more physical than the rest, creeps into territory Rick didn’t want to mention. “They carry a lot.”

“You still want to take it off him though.” Shane asks.

“Of course I do.” Rick stresses, drags out 'course' a little too long in his insistence. “It’s like he has wings, like he came from the damn sky. He deserves to be light as a feather.”

“There we go.” Shane says, smile so audible in his voice Rick can practically see it.

“What?”  
“That wasn’t what you see.” Shane points out, sounding like a cat that got the cream and laughing a little over the line. “That was what you think.”

It lends Rick perspective, shows him the imagery of his dreams, that he isn’t demeaning Daryl so much as dramatizing him, not even needing the pedestal because his version of Daryl can fly on his own, can soar as high as he needs to and swan dive straight right back down when the sky fails to keep his interest, keep him safe.

“That’s love right there Rick.” Shane says, like that was his point all along. Rick thinks it actually might’ve been. “There’s nothing disgusting about you for loving someone.”

“How do I even tell him?” Rick says, feeling so fragile in his admittance, even as indirect as it is.

Shane takes a second to ponder. “How did you tell Lori?”

“I just said it.” 

“There you go.” He laughs, sounds like he brings a hand up to rub against his jaw and indirectly smothers it. “He’s not that complicated Rick, abuse hasn’t changed his perception of love.” He pauses and this time Rick’s pretty sure it’s for dramatics. “It just shrouded it.”

Rick taps the phone against the edge of his jaw, ever so lightly, not needing the control so much as the reassurance. The belief that this is real and he’s believing it and Shane actually managed to give him advice that set him at ease rather than winding him up.

“Do you feel better?”

Rick nods, smiles. “Yeah.”

“You feel like you’re gonna go get him?” Shane’s got his game voice on, the one he always used to coax Rick into talking about Lori.

Rick contemplates it, tests the balance. “I feel like I have strong enough foundations to take the steps.”

“What about the motivation?” Shane asks, sounding every bit like the best friend Rick knows and loves. 

“There was always enough of that.” Rick says, like it was a secret he didn’t quite mean to admit to.

Rick can hear Shane nod, the steady rise and fall of hair overlapping the receiver. “What was holding you back?”

“Repercussions.” Rick say, tilts his head down to hold the phone against his shoulder when his other arm starts to ache.

“They still got you?”

“No,” Rick sighs, feels more free from fears than he has for a while. “I don’t think they ever really had me.” It took him long enough to realize it that saying it seems redundant, he says it anyway, knows for all of Shane’s believed indifference he actually like to know. “I was just clinging onto them.”

“You let them go yet?”

Rick hums in agreement to it, doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to feel the urge to reach back and hold onto them again, to acknowledge them for fear of realizing exactly what he’s let go of.

“What’s the kid’s name again?” Shane asks, knowing already but wanting Rick to say it, to feel it, to _know_.

“Daryl Dixon.” The smile that stretches across his face feels like it’s part of the name, that it starts with Daryl and Dixon is just the middle ground leading to Rick’s happiness.

Shane smiles too, even though Rick can’t see it. “What does that mean to you?”

“Everything.” Rick drags the words out, saying it with such a soft tone he’s surprised at its own volume. “He means everything.”

“Don’t deny yourself everything Rick.” Shane decides, glad to hear the happiness back in his friend’s voice after being part of the reason it evaporated. 

“Thank you Shane.” Rick says, means it with every ounce of gratitude that overwhelms his lingering doubt.

“Always here, brother.” Shane says, sounding just as fond. “Always here.”

Rick hangs up the phone, leans back over the couch and closes his eyes, the lack of any droplets on tile not registering as anything to worry about in a mind so free of worry.

Daryl himself stands at the dividing wall of the kitchen, water dripping down over his forehead, resting like stars against the dark of his lashes. His smile is uncertain but steady, as he lets the water fall into his eyes and rest there, if only because Rick thinks they’re the ocean.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely support on this story! I'm so happy all of you are liking the romance now we've got here! It's not going anywhere either!
> 
> Daryl's confidence in this chapter is quite sudden, it doesn't remain _this_ high but it honestly doesn't fall to the level it had been before, now the romance is here, it's here to stay! 
> 
> (Not in this chapter but relevant) Daryl will still have a struggle with the sexual aspects of a relationship, but he understands the intimacy and he understands that Rick has feelings for him. He may need clarification and he may need reassurance, but he isn't running away, so don't worry! :)
> 
> WARNING- For mentions of childhood sexual abuse!

The weekend swings around like a pendulum.

Daryl contemplates it often, the movement of it, the oscillation, the very thing that carried him from a 12 year old slip of nothing into whatever 17 year old slip of nothing he is now.

12 was probably the year everything went wrong, the year secrets transcended into sexuality and Daryl’s fragile perception of pleasure got twisted into pain. 

Jimmy was the start of it, and even though Daryl’s not sure he was ever ‘pure’ enough to be considered a virgin in any meaning other than sexual, that didn’t last long enough to add any particular ‘naivety’ to Daryl’s character either. Jimmy wasn’t rough, his hands didn’t hurt, but they lingered in ways Daryl didn’t want them to, were far too interested in tracing wounds and far too indifferent to anything but his own pleasure to do anything about them.

The hardest part was hiding the whole thing from Merle, and while Daryl was glad Dad’s obliviousness obliterated his perception of it all, he knew Merle could be just as dangerous towards diversion. When Merle was home everything seemed even more painful, the touches felt more insidious, like the very essence of eyes on his skin ridiculed all the Merle taught him to hide from. It felt infectious, made Daryl feel like the type of clean Merle taught him wasn’t enough, that alcohol couldn’t burn through the layers to the wounds it really had to cleanse.

There were too many forceful hands, too many teeth marks temporarily placed in bunched up fabric, words kept quiet and tears kept lodged firmly where they belong. A lot of the time Daryl was sure Merle wouldn’t even mind Jimmy fucking him, would be more concerned with the tears that streamed down his face and cast ignominy over the whole situation. 

It was a bitter thought, translated through nerve ending and synapses at a time where bitter felt like the only thing Daryl would ever know, bitter bed sheets and bitter tears and bitter cum. 

Merle never did notice, flew at a level of perpetual high even Daryl’s precarious balance on his tightrope couldn’t reach. 

Sometimes Daryl wonders if Jimmy did it to anyone else, if Daryl’s continued silence on the topic was hurting others as much as it hurt himself. It feels too closed, too contained, like Daryl wrapped the whole thing in sheet metal and threw it into the ocean, tied the weight of it to his legs so it would drag him under, down deep enough that words drowned and feelings suffocated. 

Rick thinks Daryl’s eyes are like the ocean, and Daryl starts to wonder if he can see that too, if he can see Daryl drowning every time he looks at him, the box that chains his ankles and wraps washed up words into his mouth, holds them there so he can breathe them in, lets them leave his mouth only when they’re nothing but air, light as bubbles and unreachable.

Daryl thinks Rick’s eyes are more like the sky, wonders if the air he breathes is light enough to travel all the way there, that there might be enough substance to weightless consciousness for Rick to translate the meaning behind it, work out what Daryl’s trying to say but doesn’t have the capacity to speak of. He knows Rick would be willing, that the sky itself would bend, contort itself to meet the sea, horizon more established then anyone ever knew it to be.

It seems like they’re so close to touching, to being touched in return, but something holds them back, some unspoken agreement that such opposing sides of the spectrum aren’t supposed to meet, that middle ground shouldn’t be considered as territory to cross. Maybe it’s the weight of Daryl, pulls him down and drags him deep, confines him to depth and darkness and desire, or maybe it’s Rick’s weightlessness, drags him away, eliminates his ability to ever hold something when it’s own substance can’t support that which outweighs it, let alone that which weighs as heavily as the ocean.

It’s on Saturday morning, when Daryl wakes up and one of Rick’s arms is slung low over his waist that he realizes the difference between 12 year old Daryl and who he is now.

This touch isn’t lingering anywhere he doesn’t want it, if anything, he’d appreciate it being slightly more intentional, less an accidental touch and more a conscious caress. The thought of Rick touching him doesn’t feel perfidious. Daryl imagines it would feel cleansing. That maybe it could reach past the stagnant water surrounding him and clean his skin, maybe even further than that, to the coiling ink that lingers like bruises, reach right in and alleviate it. 

Rick’s head tilts down into Daryl’s, and he thinks it says something about comfort that he recognizes something so personal, almost intimate, that he can tell Rick’s waking pattern simply by the movements made before consciousness. The arm around his waist loosens, moves away like even in semi-consciousness Rick decided it could be seen as an offence. There’s something in that, more than the touch, that makes Daryl wish it was still there, that Rick being so concerned with his comfort makes him crave the contact.

“Sorry.” Rick says, voice low in the reminiscence of sleep, dreams lingering in his throat and the night sky fading from his eyes as the pupil fades, night turning to day right before Daryl’s eyes.

Daryl shakes his head, the movement brushing his hair against Rick’s chest. “It’s okay.”

“Not really.” Rick sighs, brings the forearm that had looped round Daryl’s waist up to his eyes, lays it across them, still able to look down at Daryl through the gap by his nose.

“Why’s that?” Daryl asks, aware of the answer already but interested in it anyway, wondering if any of Shane’s talk from yesterday actually made a difference.

“I’m your teacher.” Rick says, the words heavy, like it finally gives the conversation substance. 

Daryl shifts slightly, moving completely onto his stomach, folding his arms so his elbow and forearm just brush against Rick’s side, leaning his chin down onto it so he can look up at him properly through the arm over his eyes. He feels like he’s setting himself up for something, be it a storm or simple rainfall, either way the situation feels tentative, one careful foot at a time, and Daryl thinks that after all the time and care Rick’s put into making him comfortable the least he can do is repay Rick in kind. 

It doesn’t even feel like a debt being repaid, more mutual friendship that Daryl’s only just realized feels too lacking to accurately describe his feelings.

“Nah.” He says, tilts his head against his arm so his cheek rests against them. “You’re Rick Grimes.”

“I am.” Rick says, moves his arm up to his forehead and rests it there instead, runs a hand through his curls and pulls against the tangles. He does it again, and Daryl starts to wonder if less of Rick’s anxious tendencies had been worked through as thoroughly as he first thought. “And you’re my student.”

“I’m just Daryl.” He says, the fingers of his hand just touching the skin above Rick’s scar, a small circle traced above it with the tip of one, carefully angled to avoid scratching him with the bitten nail.

Rick looks down to his hand, back to him, doesn’t say anything about the contact so much as he breathes through it. “No Dixon?"

“Not right now.” Daryl mummers, keeping his eyes on the scar, wondering if Rick ever looked at it and hated it. If scars vary based on the emotions inflicted on them, if looking at something so permanent could bring Rick any of the humor he channeled so easily when he told the story of it. He hopes it does. Daryl wouldn’t wish self-analytical sadness on anyone.

Rick reaches out a hand, taps the bottom of Daryl’s chin with the back of one finger, lifts his line of sight to coincide with Rick’s. “Why?”

Daryl shrugs, hold the contact of both his eyes on Rick’s and the hand that just steadily nudges into Rick’s side. “Dixons don’t belong here.”

“Yes they do.” Rick says, furrowed eyebrows making his eyes looks so much darker, his eyelashes just brushing the edge of the sky as he looks down at Daryl.

“No.” Daryl says, shakes his head and drops his eyes, brings another finger up to trace damaged flesh, wondering how Rick doesn’t flinch like Daryl always used to when Jimmy would do the same to him, hands that never really hurt but never really tried to heal. “They don’t.”

“Why.” Rick asks, placing a soft hand over the top of his scar, inadvertently trapping Daryl’s beneath it. It acts like a puppeteer pulling Daryl’s concentration back to his, strings on Daryl’s limbs and intention clinging to his eyelids.

Daryl smiles, slides his hand from where Rick’s trapped it and places it back on top of his own. “Dixon’s a curse.”

“It’s just a word.” Rick says, sounding mildly concerned that Daryl’s referring to something linked to himself as something so negative.

“Ain’t all curses words?” Daryl whispers, not meaning to be quite so quiet but feeling like the atmosphere calls for it, like revelations so early in the morning shouldn’t echo through a room the sun hasn’t yet breached, that light should at least get the chance to encapsulate something before shadows overtake it.

“What’s the occasion?” Rick asks, smiling at the way Daryl’s eyes twitch, not understanding the question. “Getting rid of the curse?”

Daryl shrugs, brings the palm of one hand up to rub against his eyes. “It was dragging a lot of bad shit around with it.”

“Do you feel lighter?” The arm on his forehead falls, catching Daryl’s hand as it makes a move back towards his side, holding it within his own but not letting it touch anything else.

“Light as a feather.” Daryl says, watches the way Rick’s eyes focus on him completely, irises consumed by black and chasing away all that’s blue. Daryl glances towards the window, checks it’s still morning, cause for a second he could’ve sworn the night had swarmed the sky. 

Rick himself remains looking directly at Daryl, the hand over his loosening, his attention wandering too much to keep a hold on his muscles. It’s probably nothing, could be reasoned away with coincidence easily, but there’s something about the way Daryl phrases it that makes Rick think back to his own words, makes him wonder if he’s only realizing it because he said it himself not too long ago or if Daryl’s only said it because he- 

“I heard you talking to Shane, yesterday.” Daryl says, like he cut into Rick’s thoughts and stole the words right out of his mouth.

Rick can’t understand why Daryl’s still here, if he heard all the things that were said, if he knows what Rick’s been thinking. Rick has a moment to question Daryl’s self-preservation, whether it remains intact and was always lacking or if, once upon a time, it was whole and the weight of opposition against it twisted it into something more resembling acceptance to whatever wants to hurt him then any formulated way to avoid bad situations. 

If maybe, Daryl’s idea of self-preservation runs closer to self-sacrifice then anyone’s should likely rest. 

“I-” Rick starts, completely letting go of Daryl’s arm like the skin burned him, looking towards it like he expects blisters and blood, like change is inevitable in this conversation and he expects it to be painful. “I’m not, I wouldn’t-”

“I know that.” Daryl says, bites along his lips and questions slightly too late if telling Rick was the wrong thing to do.

“It’s so wro-” _ng, wrong, wrong, wrong._

“I know what wrong is Rick.” Daryl argues, just subtly, sits up slightly so he’s leaning on his elbows. “There ain’t a single thing wrong with you.”

Rick shakes his head. “I don’t wanna be like-”

“Like who?” Daryl asks, watching the rise and fall of Rick’s chest, placing a hand on the bed beside it, his knuckles just brushing the skin. It’s not the best, but it means he can at least keep an eye on how fast Rick's diaphragm is moving without looking away from his face.

“Like whoever hurt you.” Rick says, his ribs shuddering with the next breath.

It’s an opening if Daryl ever heard one, not so much an invitation as an opportunity, a slot perfectly fitted to slide information right on over. It takes him a while to think about it, because _‘whoever hurt you’_ has an awful lot of information placed behind it, too many people to categorize and too much information to generalize any of them. He looks at Rick, can see the way night turns back into day, black chased away by blue like it never overtook it in the first place.

The guilt there takes form in rain, the dullness of it just threatening the edges of the sunshine, and Daryl can’t understand why Rick could think himself guilty of something he’s never done, could compare himself to abusers when all he’s ever done is fixed the abused.

“Jimmy.” Daryl says, folding his arms again and placing his head back down onto them.

Rick looks down at him, calm eyes managing to look so stormy. “What?"

“His name was Jimmy.” Daryl clarifies, looks at Rick until the eyes turn thunderous, anger so carefully held back but so obviously threatening. “He didn’t hurt me, not really.”

Rick’s brow furrows, chasing away the thunder and replacing it with such ominous blue. “Then why-”

“He was the first person I had sex with.” Daryl says, smiles a smile that threatens to tremble until he bites into the inside of it hard enough to break skin. “I was twelve.”

“Daryl-” The sky starts to look cloudy, rain threatening the horizon. 

“Don’t compare yourself to that.” Daryl warns, not sure if he can win a war against the weather. 

“How could he not have hurt you?” Water builds and the sky looks bright in reflection of it, the sun shining its way through the clouds and illuminating the droplets.

“I never said no.” Daryl admits, looks down to his arm, bites into the cut in his lip and licks the blood away when it falls. “Not once.”

“You were twelve, Daryl that’s-” It’s shaky, and when Daryl looks back over to see why he realizes that the sky’s crying.

“Life.” He finishes, when Rick’s unable to do so himself, pulls himself up into a sitting position and folds his legs, feels better for the height even if it makes the sky’s misery so much more obvious. “It happens, happens all the time.”

Rick puts both his hands over his face, rubs at his eyes until Daryl’s sure they must be sore, scratches away the tears that fell as much as the ones that threatened to. He doesn’t sit up like Daryl does, stays horizontal, almost seems to savor the pressure it puts on his lungs, the drag that makes inhaling difficult with the way his throat is blocked.

“That doesn’t make it okay.” It’s almost a whine, when he gets it out, like it physically hurts to speak and breathe and feel.

“I know it doesn’t.” Daryl says, reaches a hand out to wrap it around one of Rick’s wrists, gently urging it away from his face, fearing a flood if the rain can’t run away properly.

"Doesn’t mean it was the last time I made the exact same offer to someone else, and then someone else after that.”

“That wasn’t your fault-” Rick protests, not even trying to pry his wrist out of Daryl’s grip. Daryl hopes it isn’t because he fears hurting him, he’s had more than enough time to be fragile, now’s the time for things to come together, not break apart.

“No it wasn’t.” Daryl agrees, letting go of Rick when he starts to sit up, settling back against the headboard like the whole conversation’s exhausting him, like maybe he was more exhausted than Daryl realized even before that. “But it was still me. I still made the offer, I still did it and I never _said_ no, not a single time.”

Rick closes his eyes, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. “That’s not what consent is.”

“I know it’s not.” Daryl deadpans, tilting his head until Rick looks at him, not letting his own emotions get the better of him like they have for the past month, determined that he can be just as much of a help to Rick as Rick’s always been to him. “This isn’t about consent.”

“How is this not about-?”

“You’re looking at me like I’m a... well of innocence.” Daryl points to himself fractionally, rolls his hand away like the statement can be disregarded with just that. “Like you’re gonna contaminate me.”

“Daryl-” Rick starts, looking like the sky’s going to split again. 

“I’ve done things Rick!” There go the emotions, such a fragile hold on something so overwhelming. “I may not have wanted it but I did it!”

“That’s why I-”

“No!” It strikes Daryl as so odd that something so personal to him can affect Rick so much, and he thinks that maybe, even after all his consideration of it, he still might’ve underestimated the exact level of Rick’s kindness, exactly how far it can reach. “You’re doing the exact same thing!”

It’s not supposed to sound so accusatory, but there’s something about telling all this and having Rick still not understand that pulls at Daryl. He knows he hasn’t given him enough information to understand anything, but the link between two things he never wanted to accept could link (and would link) makes everything feel unstable again. It reminds Daryl why he kept such a lid on his emotions in the first place, now he can remember how much expressing them hurt, how it stung even more than feeling them, how much more painful even that was than ignoring them entirely.

“You’re not listening to what I want.” Daryl says, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible even with the flood threatening to spill from it, ever considerate of Carl in the other room. “You think I’m not capable of that?”

Rick reaches out a hand, almost as if to grab one of Daryl’s own. Daryl wouldn’t have minded the contact in the least, but Rick second guesses himself, drops it back to his side. “Of course not, but-”

“But what?” Daryl interrupts, trying his best not to mourn the loss of a touch that never even made contact with him. “Abuse made me think I want abuse?” 

“Perceptions change with outside influence.” Rick says, shoulders slumping like he can’t handle the weight of this on him.

Daryl has to take a breath, remind himself that Rick doesn’t know what he’s doing here. That he can’t expect Rick to say everything he wants to hear when he doesn’t even know what would appease him himself. It’s startlingly calming in itself, to remember that Rick's been flying blind for a long time, always managed to stay afloat regardless of the waves Daryl pushed at him, the turbulence they hit in the skies. 

“You sound like a damn textbook.” Daryl says, takes another deep breath and shifts to be directly in Rick’s line of sight. “I’m not a victim Rick.” He’s damn near sat on Rick’s lap, and the pull and drag of Rick’s chest against his knee reminds him that Rick’s as worried in all of this as Daryl is, that he’s a teacher and a father and of course he thinks he’s doing everything wrong. “I’m not gonna break down crying as soon as you touch me.”

“You were _twelve_.” Rick says, like he’s heard nothing since that revelation, like it’s stuck on loop and the stop button’s good as bust.

“And I didn’t understand it.” Daryl says, nods his head and looks down to Rick’s scar again, finding something oddly comforting in the conformity of it. “Now I do.”

Rick looks at him, follows Daryl’s line of sight to his chest. “What?”

“Sitting here now, face to face, that’s a difference.” He makes a vague motion between the two of them. “You woke up with an arm round me and you moved it, you apologized.” 

“Small differences.” Rick notes, brings a hand up to run it through his hair.

“Exactly.” Daryl says, thinking ‘to hell with it’ and grabs Rick’s hand on its way back to the bed.

“What?” Rick questions, looking at their hands but making no move to pull his own away. Daryl doesn’t speak for a minute, waits until Rick looks back at him, smiles slightly when his thumb begins to rub small circles into the back of his hand.

“Most of the people that hurt me,” Daryl says, comforted by the soothing motion. “They weren’t violent.” 

As true as it is, Rick still looks confused about it. Maybe it’s the use of hurt with the exception of violence, the idea that something so startling left no real physical marks that Daryl ever found noteworthy. He supposes it’s something quite difficult to grasp, that something so violent in its actions could be considered anything but by the very person who experienced it.

Daryl flips Rick’s hand over in his own, looks down to the faint little blurred scar left by continued attempts at calmness, runs his own thumb over it and feels calmer himself because of it.

“You’re not violent either.” He says, almost in juxtaposition to the mark he’s touching, the evidence of the opposite. Daryl knows enough about self-infliction to acknowledge the difference, that it isn’t violence so much as disregard.

“That’s a comparison.” Rick breathes, like the thought of it hurts him too much to worry about, the air choked out of him rather than caught in his lungs.

“Most of it is.” He traces a hand up his palm, winds their fingers together and holds on. “It was sex.” 

“I don’t want to be like them.”

“You’re not.” Daryl says, tries to work out how to get back to the Rick left behind in Shane’s absence yesterday, the one who convinced himself of all of this. It hits Daryl, not unsurprisingly, that mentioning something like Jimmy probably made Rick spring back to yesterday’s tension, that everything he guessed at was acknowledged as true and threw him back into fears of being like that himself. It’s unfounded, but Daryl can’t help but think it makes sense to Rick.

“You said my eyes remind you of the ocean.” He says, raises his eyebrows at Rick as if emphasizing them.

“I-”

“You act like I don’t know what love is.” Daryl cuts in, before Rick has a chance to question himself again. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head and breaths through his noise for fear of losing his composure if he gives himself the chance to cry. “I’ve seen love Rick.” 

It’s Rick this time, who reaches forward and grabs Daryl’s other hand, like he can see the tears threatening to overflow.

“Sex didn’t hurt.” Daryl comments, a lie on its own but truthful within its coupling to its comparison. “It was thinking I wasn’t capable of being loved.”

“Love doesn’t change what happened to you.” Rick says, looking down at their hands like the contact changes something, like the change is hard to accept.

“No, it doesn’t.” Daryl agrees, biting on his tongue and blinking away moisture. Trying his best to hold back the ocean as he had the summer storm. “But if seeing it can show me the differences, experiencing it can teach me them too.”

Rick leans forward as if by impulse, keeps their hands clasped together in his lap and rests his forehead against Daryl’s chest, like the steady thumping of his heart could ease the tension of his mind better than any moderate wound could ever hope to. Daryl angles his head down, looks towards wayward curls and smiles.

“You are my teacher.” Daryl says, soothes away the resulting tensions with a gentle squeeze to Rick’s hands.

“I know, I-” Rick stops, lets out a breath of air that curls over Daryl’s stomach and feels like resignation to all he’s feeling, so close to acceptance if only Daryl can convince him of his own. 

It makes Daryl proud, in a weird way, that for all Rick’s helped him this is the one time he can help Rick. It makes everything feel even, and balance doesn’t feel so bad when there are two people to sustain it.

“I think that means you’ll be a pretty good person to learn from.”

“I don’t want to abuse that.” Rick whispers, near silent against Daryl’s chest.

“I know what abuse is.” Daryl says, feels Rick squeeze his hands and smiles at the give and take of it all. “This isn’t it.”

“It could be.” Rick says, feeling like he’s trying to burrow deeper into Daryl’s button up, reach skin and bone until he reaches his heart. It should feel a bit too much like Daryl’s old dreams, but the situation feels too soft and they’ve already established the serenity of it all.

“No it couldn’t.” Daryl whispers, licks his lips. “You’re thinking about it.”

Rick drags in a breath, and Daryl doesn’t feel him let it back out. “Exactly, that means I could-” 

“People who abuse don’t think about it.” Daryl cuts in, stops the train of thought they’ve traveled down five times already, brings it to the inevitable conclusion Rick’s finding so difficult to accept. “They’re not evil.” He mentions, because it’s true and it took him a long time to realize it. “It’s impulse, it’s reaction.”

Rick sits up from Daryl’s chest, makes eyes contact, the sea and the ocean as close as they’ve ever been. Rick’s air and Daryl’s rolling waves just touching slightly, marginally, both contained but turbulent.

Daryl smiles at him, channels Maggie’s secret one that always makes Daryl believe the most unbelievable things. “If you were gonna hurt me, you would’ve done it by now.”

Rick smiles back, looking like even the thought of acceptance takes a weight of his shoulders. He takes a breath, the air swirling back out of them and disturbing Daryl’s waves.

“I’m telling you what I want Rick.” He says, referring to the whole conversation. 

“What do you want, Daryl.” Rick asks, looks at him like he sees him, rather than a list of desires he’s not allowed to enjoy.

“I want you to hug me.”

The smile on his face reminds Daryl of sunshine in the wake of all the fallen rain, and Rick pulls him forward like he’s been waiting for the request, fits Daryl’s head to the curve of his neck like he always knew it would fit but couldn’t convince himself to puzzle it together. Daryl wraps his arms under and around his back, twists his hands into fists against Rick’s shoulder blades and breathes against his neck, feeling the stubble peppering Rick’s jawline rub against the bridge of his nose.

The sky and the ocean meet, and it’s not nearly as catastrophic as the horizon always feared.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very, very much for all of the support on this story! Every kudos, comment and bookmark is amazing and I can't believe so many of you are still enjoying this!
> 
> Quick reminder that neither Rick nor Daryl are going to run away from each other, and that as questioned as it can be the romance is here to stay and never leaves. :)
> 
> When Carl says 'I heard you talking this morning.' He means generally, he didn't hear specifics! :)

The conversation didn’t change as much as Daryl thought it would.

If anything, the realization that Rick could actually want him and like him reminds him of all the times he decided he wasn’t cut out for love.

It’s not that he doesn’t want it, because he does, and sitting across the table from Rick, watching him talk to his son and send little half smiles at Daryl around mouthfuls of waffles only clarifies that. It just reminds him of balance, of all the times he knew not to want anything because the pull of desire would cripple him. There’s something about the weight of want, how it rests so heavily but can feel so light, it’s deceptively harmful, pushes you ever so slightly out of orbit and fractures all the supports holding everything steady.

While it sounds hypocritical towards all the heartfelt encouragements Daryl had preached yesterday, he finds his own attentiveness to the service lacking. 

It isn’t even the emotion that’s difficult, love is easy as falling and anyone can fall. The idea of holding hands and hugging someone is something new to Daryl, soothing almost, in its lack of repressed memories, realizing that no one ever held him down and hugged him when he didn’t want it. To be perfectly honest, no one had ever really hugged him when he _had_ wanted it, and maybe there’s something in his torn skin that longs for a touch, one that brings blushes rather than burns.

It’s the intimacy of it all, the sex that scares him. Not because he fears pain, or a renewal of the disappointment that never alleviated enough for Daryl to label it as anything other than life, it’s more that he doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to be. He can’t be sure whether it’s supposed to be like what he knows it to be, that maybe he made a big deal out of nothing and that’s the way it always is. He can’t help feeling that love might not make a difference, that he’ll always be uncomfortable during sex.

How can he be comfortable with someone else when he’s not even comfortable in himself?

Daryl finds it so extremely frustrating that it’s the tried and tested that’s malfunctioning the most. 

There’s something about knowing what to expect from sex that makes it worse, that while he knows it never _hurt_ , it never felt _good_ either. 

The idea that love, something so new, something Daryl’s never experienced, can have so much more of a solid foundation is so frustrating. There’s no reason that he should find comfort in something so fragile, that the emotion that crumbles no matter how well it's built should make him feel so stable. He supposes it’s the excitement that comes from no expectations, that he has no memory of anything good, but also not of anything bad. 

He wants Rick to love him, to touch him with a tenderness that belies any feeling of tranquility. And if it would be possible to never touch his back or his legs of his chest and still own him completely Daryl would love that too. If maybe Rick could turn off the lights and not ask questions and not worry about the tears that shouldn’t fall into a pillowcase too clean to mar it so much, that would be lovely. It’s not Rick after all it’s him.

Daryl doesn’t think Rick would hurt him, his violence is non-existent and his heart is too pure, it’s more that Daryl tends to hurt himself. 

His heart beats love black, his lungs breathe in pleasure and exhale poisons.

He doesn’t even think sex is a debt anymore, not to everyone, but Daryl can’t help feeling that it has to mean something. Not so much meaningful in its emotion so much as in its physicality, 'cause why would something that burns so bright want to touch something that can’t hope to catch fire? 

Daryl feels something when he looks at Rick, the dampened flames in the pit of his stomach that could be desire but never quite flare into it. The emotions are there and Daryl can read them more clearly than he ever has, the problem remains that his physicality is enough to blur the letters, rearrange the words, make it so that Daryl believes no one would want to touch something broken without breaking it further.

It’s hypocritical, it’s _stupid_.

Daryl knows what to do, knows to shut up and bear it and bite his lip bloody if only so he’ll get a kiss, bloody lips to bloody lips, absorbing his pain like aphrodisiac. 

He’d do it for Rick, knows he’s done it for less, is conscious enough of his ability to deal with pain to reason that a broken heart could be bitten to the back of his throat and choked on until it’s silent. Reason’s that maybe he doesn’t need the hummingbirds wings if he could borrow flight from another, absorb Rick’s love and disregard his own. He’s pretty sure it’s the process of it though, that love and lust is only faulty when connected to Daryl, that maybe the emotions are right and Daryl’s just so, so wrong.

Daryl doesn’t want to hurt himself either, because hurting himself will hurt Rick. It’s not disregard if someone else is involved. It stings like violence, tears like a belt buckle or a wine bottle and reminds Daryl that he can’t turn Rick into something he never wanted to be because he doesn’t want to admit the difference. Rick can’t solidify into Jimmy and Joe and Dad. The pictures don’t line up, the edges blur together and distort the image and Daryl is conscious enough of himself to realize that the same jagged edges, the ones that mean Rick can’t line up with anyone who hurt him are the very same reason Rick can’t patch himself to Daryl.

He’d sand his skin raw if it meant fitting to Rick Grimes.

He won’t though, because hurting himself means hurting Rick and he knows the ocean wouldn’t look blue if the sky itself didn’t shine so bright. 

Daryl wants to stay blue, be beautiful like the ocean.

It sounds so romantic, everything Daryl was taught to hate but couldn’t help craving and he wishes romance wasn’t so fundamentally linked to intimacy. It’s a foolish hope, one that wishes the progression of a relationship didn’t flow in a direction Daryl’s heavy, heavy ocean couldn’t travel. 

He told Rick that he’d ‘seen love’, and he had. Daryl could spot love in people like endless chain links but he lacks experience, and all he does have revolves around sex, burnt out bridges too broken to build on.

Love sits reflected at him right now, Rick looking towards Carl like he’d lasso the moon to make the boy happy, rip out a piece of himself and give it to someone else for the sake of care and kindness. It both amazes and alarms Daryl, that the look doesn’t dim when it turns to him. 

The reflection is double sided, it goes two ways, and while Daryl’s understanding of love is still fragile enough to be adaptive he never really realized something so unconditional could be so widespread.

“You okay Daryl?” Carl says, looking up at him over a forkful of the same waffles these two have been eating for the month Daryl’s been here, still smiling like it’s a treat he only gets occasionally.

“I’m fine Baby Goat.” Daryl says, brings some of his own food up to his mouth and eats as normally as he can with two sets of eye critiquing him.

“Kay.”

They lapse into silence again and Daryl would feel relaxed by it if only Carl would stop staring at him. His eyes drift to Rick across the table, drifting back to Daryl after lingering for a few seconds, bringing a forkful of his food up to his mouth in-between each. Daryl looks at Rick, but Rick’s eyes are just as focused on him as Carl’s are periodically.

“Can I ask you a question?” Carl says, after a few more pendulum glances.

Daryl pushes his plate aside, places an elbow on the table and leans his weight down onto it. “Shoot, Baby goat.”

“Why did you and Dad sleep in the same room?” Daryl’s gaze moves to meet Rick’s, unable to with the way Rick’s eyes have finally focused in on his son.

Rick shakes his head, glances towards Daryl and back to Carl. “How did you know about-?” 

“I went to get a drink and no one was on the couch.” Carl says, waves his fork slightly in the direction of the living room.

Daryl watches him for a second and despite Rick’s avid attempt to try and catch Carl’s eyes, Daryl holds pretty much all of his attention. He takes a breath, tries to come up with some form of excuse, some variation of the truth that makes this more child friendly, even considering how little happened.

Carl tilts his head, looking far too much like his Dad. “I also heard you talking this morning.”

Daryl looks towards Rick with something approaching an apology, surprised when it’s disregarded with nothing more than a smile and a wave of the hand that rest itself in brown curls and pulls through the tangles slightly too harshly to be anything but intentional.

He looks back to Carl, and the kid doesn’t even look upset at what he’s implying, just childish curiosity wrapped up in a bundle of awkward questions.

“Are you and Dad together?” Carl asks, when neither of them make a move to say anything contradicting his earlier statement.

“Not really.” Daryl says, seeming to peel off the layer of anxiety adhering his lips together faster the Rick realizes his own are stuck. 

Carl nods his head, lowers his fork to drag it through the syrup left on his plate. “Why?”

“Carl, things like this are complicated.” Rick says, almost contemplating reaching out a hand to Carl before he drops his fork and crosses them both over each other.

“That’s what all adults say when they can’t do something easy.” Carl says, folds his hands tighter into his chest and looks off to the side of the kitchen. Lacy perks up at his feet, puts a cold nose on his ankle in a way that always makes the kid smile no matter how much he tries to hold it back.

Rick looks down to the floor, smiles at Lacy’s wagging tail. “Carl-” 

“You like Daryl.” Carl says, completely ignoring whatever Rick had wanted to say, looking back to them both with the smile wiped clean from his face, a blank slate in a house that was only just starting to feel full. “And Daryl likes you.”

“It’s not that easy kid.” Daryl jumps in, not entirely sure of his place but more stable in adapting to one then he ever thought possible. Carl looks at him and he seems so hopelessly lost. He isn’t sad, but Daryl can’t help but think that the utter disorientated feel of misunderstanding something is the saddest thing in the world anyway.

“Of course it is.” Carl rolls his eyes. “What were you talking about if not this?” 

“We _were_ talking about it.” Rick admits, leans back in his chair slightly and collects the plates up, very specifically moving them to the center after what happened last time. Daryl would like to tell him it’s okay, but the thought makes him smile and the conflicting emotions do nothing to help this conversation. “But just talking.”

“What about exactly?” Carl asks, suspicious in the face of something so surreptitious.

Daryl sighs, leans forward over the table and flicks a piece of hair out of his eyes. He looks at the kid, remembers all the things he wanted to know when he was that age but was deemed too ‘young’ to be partial to, all the times he knew something but it was never clarified because people honestly thought it made a difference.

“Your Dad thinks he’s too old for me Baby Goat.” He says, looks over the table at Rick while he does. 

“You’re not _that_ old Dad.” Carl says, specific emphasis on that coupled with another eye roll and Daryl starts to wonder when the kid started getting so sassy. “And Daryl’s 17 anyway, that’s old too.”

Daryl huffs, points towards Carl with a smirk. “Watch your mouth Baby Goat.”

“You’re not my Mom Daryl.” The smirk falls from Daryl’s face, but Carl doesn’t lose his smile.

“No, I’m not.” Daryl says, with a feeling that Carl was more mature than anyone gave him credit for. “That what this is about?”

“No.” Carl says, looking from Daryl to Rick and back again. “Mum and Dad split up because they were unhappy.”

Rick nods, careful, studying Carl like he’s preparing for some inevitable tantrum that Daryl isn’t altogether sure is going to happen. “Yes, we did.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you two to be happy.” Carl nods, deciding the validity of his own statement. “You’d be happy together.”

“How the hell do you figure that one, kid?” Daryl asks, leans back into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, wondering if someone so young could really have a better grasp on all this then Daryl himself does.

“You’re always happy when you’re around each other.” Carl says, getting up from his seat and walking round to Daryl. “And…” He says, draws out the word with a smile and leans into Daryl’s ear, whispering so quietly Daryl barely makes it out past the sound of their breathing. “You deserve to be happy.”

Carl leaves, walks away with one of those awkward little fist bumps to Daryl’s shoulder, one that didn’t feel all the awkward when Daryl was too busy admiring the consideration in it. He breathes out, makes sure to make it deep so he gets all those lingering sections of air that cram themselves into unnoticed portions of his lungs and try to save up enough suffocation for a panic attack. When he looks across at him, he’s pretty sure Rick’s doing the same.

“What did he say?” He asks, motions his head in the direction Carl walked out in.

Daryl smiles, shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Rick flexes his neck to either side, crosses his hands in front of him and takes in a breath Daryl recognizes from all the times people prepared to shout shit at him across a room. Rick doesn’t do it angrily, and Daryl’s sure the only thing he would shot is a name, it’s still an alleged comparison he halts before it can become a reality and fracture Daryl’s perception of this ‘love’ thing even more needlessly. Daryl knows Rick would never hurt him, it’s just a realization that fights back just a little bit every time he decides upon it.

“Don’t call him back, it was nothing.”

“Daryl-”

“Really Rick, he just…” Daryl sighs, thinks, once again, of all the times he wanted to know something, supposes the desperate need to understand situations isn’t limited to childhood. “He said I deserved to be happy.”

Rick nods, accepts it as easily as he accepts anything else Daryl says. 

Eventually, after a silence that isn’t quite companionable but doesn’t ring with the same awkwardness the conversation had, Rick gets up to wash the plates, waving off Daryl’s attempts at help with a kind smile and a nod in the direction of the living room. Daryl doesn’t argue, watches Rick’s back for a moment and wishes he had enough courage to do what he had unintentionally done when he was half unconscious, place his head down into the grove of his shoulder blades and just breathe against the fabric, maybe wrap his hands around Rick’s waist and hold on as tightly as he could, try to hold the both of them together. 

He doesn’t, couldn’t bring himself to even if his persistent doubts didn’t cloud the perpetual blue sky that had embraced him yesterday. Instead he takes Rick’s advice, heads through into the living room and takes a look round for Carl, notices the gentle sound of flipping pages coming form his room and heads over to it.

Carl’s lying on his bed when he steps into the frame of the door, staying carefully beyond the barrier of the room, hoping it would either hide him from Carl or give the kid pause if he decided he didn’t want Daryl to be there, let him get away before Carl can push him away.

It sounds like his life wrapped up in a nutshell and it’s sadder than Daryl can remember these revelations being.

Carl looks up at him as he dwindles, keeps looking until Daryl garners up enough courage to step forward into the room, running a gentle hand through Lacy’s fur as he steps towards the bed, sitting down as close to the edge as he can and leaning back to look at Carl.

It takes a lot of courage, courage that Daryl isn’t sure he’s got, but Carl’s looking at him with the most childish inquisition, knowledge and patience so deceptive to his age.

“I’m scared Baby Goat.” Daryl says, low and leisurely, Carl having to tilt himself forward on his elbows to catch it clearly.

“Dad’s not scary.” Carl says, closing the comic book he has in front of him and sitting up to be a more equal height to Daryl.

“Not of your Dad.” Daryl clarifies, not even sure what he’s trying to make more comprehensible. 

“You’re not scary either.” Carl says, and Daryl smiles, because how the hell does a Grimes’ always know what he means when he can’t even fathom it out himself.

Carl leans forward into his space when Daryl doesn’t say anything else, shifts until he’s pressed up against Daryl’s side and rests there. Daryl doesn’t move, content to sit with someone against him, not quite a hug but more companionable than anything Daryl ever used to know and feeling enough like an embrace to make him smile. They sit for a minute and Daryl only moves to look down at Carl when the boy nudges him in the ribs to get his attention. Daryl’s belatedly glad it isn’t the cracked side, but doesn’t really think he’d have minded either way.

“My teacher always says that people think too much and don’t do enough.” Carl says, looks up at Daryl with a smile of his own. “I think you’re thinking too much Daryl.”

“There’s a lot to think about.” Daryl says, drops the hand on the mattress down to Lacy when she walks over to him, she places her head in his lap and wags her tail until he begins to stoke her.

“There’s more to do.” Carl decides, reaches over and starts stroking his own hand along Lacy’s flank. 

Daryl smiles, looks towards Carl and can really believe that he’s Rick Grimes' son. “How old are you kid?”

“11.” Carl says, furrows his brow in the same way Rick always does. Despite everything it makes Daryl laugh harder than he has in a long time. “Why?”

“You’re a smart little shit.” Daryl says, ruffles Lacy’s fur before reaching over and doing the same to Carl’s hair. “Don’t tell your Dad I swore.”

“He wouldn’t mind anyway.” Carl says, his own laughter echoing round the room to the same staccato beat of Lacy’s tail. 

Daryl can’t help but love the symphony of it. 

It’s much later in the day, when Carl’s been put to sleep, a hand unconsciously tangled in the mass of Lacy’s fur and his eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids in what Daryl can only imagine is a dream. It doesn’t seem like the type Daryl gets, the nightmares that haunt Rick when he’s least expecting them to, so when Rick walks past and taps a hand against his waist, motions his head towards his own room Daryl has no trouble following him wherever he wants to go.

They all got ready for bed a long time ago, sat down on the couch with Daryl and Rick at either end, Carl shoved in the middle of them with the majority of Rick’s sweet cupboard and Lacy doing a very good job cleaning up any of the messes that fell from Carl’s sticky hands. Daryl hadn’t known the film, something comic based about Norse Gods or something relevant to that. What captured most of Daryl’s attention was the increasing frequency of times he’d look over to Rick and find him already staring.

Perhaps it should have been uncomfortable, but Rick had lazy happiness all over his face, the beauty of it putting the setting sun to shame and the fact that Carl sat in-between them eliminated any of the intimacy Daryl might’ve stripped from the act if they were alone. If anything it just made Daryl feel warm, content, lolling waves warmed by the sun as it settled, the horizon granting them another moment of blissful contact. 

It’d been nice, peaceful and maybe that’s what makes Daryl as relaxed as he is, crawling into bed beside Rick, something else that should feel sexual but feels nothing more than comfortable, considerate.

Daryl curls into Rick’s side like he belongs there, like he needs the contact to survive. It doesn’t even feel parasitic, and Daryl can’t remember the last time he felt so worthy of touch, especially that of someone as respectable as Rick Grimes.

“You okay?” Rick asks, the steady vibration of his ribs noticeable against the back of Daryl’s hand.

Daryl hums, startles slightly as Rick shifts, turning onto his side and sliding his way down to Daryl’s level, resting on his side just as Daryl is, so they’re face to face, their air mingling in the gap between them and making Daryl feel heady. 

“Are you okay?” Rick breathes again, staring at Daryl like he’s judging his reaction more than his words.

Daryl nods, feels like his own words would be too precarious to reach even the small distance Rick’s left between them.

“Is this okay?” Rick asks, motioning between them, the distance so small that he hits his own chest and Daryl’s while doing it.

Daryl nods again, looks up to meet the sky and finds it as black as the one outside, pupils so dark it takes Daryl a minute to find his way back out of them. It’s only Rick’s hand on the side of his neck that really does it, and Daryl has enough time to think pulling himself from eyes he was destined to be forever lost in was a waste of time before Rick’s pulls him forward and pushes his mouth ever so gently against Daryl’s own.

It’s languid, as relaxed as everything else this evening has been and as much as Daryl’s heart practically pounds against his rib-cage it doesn’t overwhelm his lungs and make them choke on air like it normally does. Daryl’s hand comes to rest, curled up, against the front of Rick’s hand, pretty sure he’d tangle a hand within the fibers of a shirt if Rick had one on. 

It doesn't last long Rick pulling away but staying close enough to share breath, almost offering their very oxygen to each other if either of them realize their own isn’t working.

“Was that okay.” Rick asks, just as quiet as the first two.

“Yeah.” Daryl says, nodding his head slightly against the arm Rick has cushioning it. “Okay for you?”

“Yes.” Rick says, blinks slowly and looks at Daryl with an emotion Daryl can’t hope to comprehend.

“Is that okay for a while?” Daryl asks, looking down at the space between them, at the clothes he’s wearing, not quite able to imagine either of them completely gone.

“Of course it is.” Rick whispers, notes the slight rising of the tide, the water that just catches against lashes and reaches out a hand to stroke against Daryl’s cheek. “What’s wrong sweetheart?”

“This always used to be about… deals.” Daryl says, angling his head up into the touch and closing his eyes, trying to stop the influx of emotions so he has a hope of deciphering some of them. “And I know it isn’t now, it’s just-”

He stops, breathes through something that isn’t panic so much as possibility, that everything’s riding on this ledge and Daryl doesn’t want to topple it, not when balance hasn’t seemed this unimportant in years and free falling is in the past.

“You’re not really getting anything from it.” He whispers, open’s his eyes and meets Rick’s own. 

“I’ve got you.” Rick says, so softly, rubbing the thumb against his cheek like he’s trying to solidify the point.

Daryl closes his eyes, shakes his head so subtly Rick wouldn’t know he’d done it if he wasn’t touching him. “That doesn’t count.”

“Look at me.” Daryl looks, spurred by the contact rather than the command, the compassion in both.

“Daryl, for you to not count, in anything,” Rick says, moves his other hand to cup Daryl’s other cheek, makes sure attention stays fixed on him. “Numbers would have to be non-existent.”

Daryl brings a hand to one of Rick’s own, lightly clinging to his wrist and Rick only knows Daryl’s shaking when he focuses enough on the contact to recognize the motion.

“What are you scared of?” 

“I’ve never,” Daryl starts, has to duck his head slightly in Rick’s grasp to get the rest of it out. “I’ve never _wanted_ this before.”

“You can want it as long as you like.” Rick says, ducks his own head to meet his eyes again, looks into the ocean and wishes he could strip the water from it and still keep its beauty, it’s life. “You can do nothing but want forever, if that’s what makes you comfortable.”

Rick’s hand moves to cup the back of Daryl’s head, and Daryl shakes with the intensity of it all. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Nothing would make me happier than seeing you happy.” Rick says, looking down at Daryl and not looking like a King, not when Daryl’s so certain Rick considers him an equal.

Rick twines his other hand around the back of Daryl’s waist, rests his hand just over the healing skin Daryl knows to be there and pulls him into his chest, letting Daryl curl up against him, safely encircled in arms that want for nothing but to give the comfort Daryl’s strived to find for so long. Daryl’s head rests against Rick’s chest, his forearms and his nose just brushing against the skin there, watching the goosebumps that rise with each exhale in something approaching wonder. Daryl feels the slightest pressure against his head, once, twice and a final time, realizes that Rick is kissing his hair and can do nothing but smile.

“Is this okay?” 

Daryl kisses the skin above Rick’s heart and it’s all the answer either of them needs.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all the support! Everything you all do means the world to me! I'm so overwhelmed with the support and it's lovely to see that you are all enjoying this!
> 
> NOTE- to say that Daryl briefly contemplates doing something similar to what I said he wouldn't do in the last chapter, he doesn't actually do it, doesn't even get close. When I said the Rickyl was here to stay I meant it, it only gets stronger from here on out! There's no lull in affection, no running away, this story had enough issues to sort through in itself (so sorry if anyone wanted those things)! :)
> 
> I'd also like to apologies for any errors in these chapters, and every other chapter. MermaidSheenaz is doing such a fantastic job and being kind enough to tell me about errors but I can only fix them the next day! While it's no excuse, it's mainly because I'm still trying to get a chapter done a day and they're getting longer. Today's was over 6000 words and I'm a little tired! Only two chapters left to write though! :)

The whole world comes crashing down around Daryl on Monday.

It’s something so stupid, so insignificant, small enough that Daryl could forget all about it and yet feeling like a tonne weight crashing into him when he remembers it’s significance. 

Something as simple as Rick, beautiful, kind, compassionate Rick Grimes doing his damn job and standing at the front of class telling them all they have another test. It’s something Daryl doesn’t resister straight away, mostly because he’s distracted by listening to Maggie and looking at Rick, feeling like he should be giving Maggie all of his attention but unable to look away from the front of the room.

Rick looks so happy in the classroom, something Daryl had never really seen on a teacher before. He takes pride in his students, in his job and Daryl doesn’t want to do anything to wipe the smile off that face, not when he’s only just realizing how often it’s sent his way. 

The sun’s shining through the windows at the back of the classroom, shining against Rick and throwing his disproportionate shadow against the backboard, it makes him look imposing and it would remind Daryl of his Dad if Rick’s movements weren’t so steady, his intentions gentle and so obvious in every fractional move he makes.

The revelation of another test shouldn’t inflict this much panic onto him, not when his Dad’s a long forgotten nightmare and good dreams are just starting to infiltrate all the bad ones he's ever had. 

Daryl can’t help thinking it’s his perspective that’s changed his panic, that fear isn’t registering as greatly as disappointment. While the lingering feeling of consternation is near gone, as if the feeling of unexpectedness that trails after it, the trepidation is still there, points a finger at him from Rick’s direction and says _‘do you want to disappoint him?’_

Daryl imagines Rick’s disappointment would taste like rain, and realizes how much he hates the flavor of something so bitterly bland.

Fear burns into you, it’s all consuming, inescapable, festers so deep and so resolutely that you can barely remember the feel of being anything other than afraid. It makes you hate yourself, just a little, for being unable to rid yourself of something so detrimental, for being powerless to escape it for fear of inflicting more pain.

Disappointment isn’t so unavoidable, it’s a nagging feeling, tugs at you, reminds you that you have things to loose, people to disappoint. In a way, that makes it a lot worse, that the pain of being afraid only affects the person feeling it but disappointment inflicts hurt on everyone who cared enough to think better of you, everyone who was proved wrong.

Daryl doesn’t want Rick to hurt.

For a second, Daryl thinks it would be easier if Rick was the type to get angry, at least then it would be something Daryl could handle, something he was used to. The idea of trying to adapt to someone’s disappointment, when he’s never even had enough faith placed in him to experience it before is terrifying, and Daryl starts to realize there may be more links between fear and dismay than he thought.

The overwhelming need of avoidance is sudden and Daryl’s used to the stopwatch feel of panic that follows it, the countdown that ticks down the time Daryl has left to avoid something that studiously tries to remain unavoidable. He can almost hear the sound of it in his head, the steady ticking that counts down at the same pace as the clock on the wall behind Rick. It's overcast by Rick’s shadow, opposing the one in his head that shines under the light of significance, both of them crippled in the contradiction to each other.

It feels amplified, all-consuming, ringing in his ears like static and maybe it’s the offset beating of his heart that’s throwing all rhythm out of sync. 

This shouldn’t be affecting him so badly, and as much as he knows that, the level is impossible to drag down, flying high like Daryl always used to and unconcerned with touching the ground. The clock’s ticking down to the end of the lesson, and Rick keeps sending him these surreptitious looks that put Daryl even further on edge. Rick’s worried himself, and Daryl knows he should feel reassured by the concern, that someone who looks so anxious for him wouldn’t do anything to unwittingly fuel his own, but there’s something about this whole situation that lodges into that firm feeling of inescapable negativity.

Everything was going so well, and Daryl supposes abuse isn’t the only thing that sustains itself in a cycle.

The bell rings and Daryl’s out of his chair before Rick has a hope of latching onto him, suspended in fragmented concern and secured there by the steadily growing mass of students leaving the classroom. He looks towards Maggie and Glenn, the complete lack of understanding on both of their faces doing nothing to ease his own panic.

He sits down, stares out of the window, tries to wait until the students flocking the corridors have long left the school, so he can comfort Daryl in whatever way he needs the reassurance.

Daryl himself has to wait at the back of the school building, trying his best to calm down from the panic that runs rampant through him. He can’t understand why this is happening, why this, of all things, is what pushes him back into the black. 

Maybe it’s the cycle, come full circle. He doesn’t know how many revolutions it can make, how many he can handle.

He lets his head fall back into the wall, briefly wonders if hitting something a bit too hard will shut off everything, make it so he’s numb, removed from it all, like water flowing over his head and blurring his senses. He forces his head back into the brickwork, less to find out if that particular thought has any truth in it and more to force it somewhere he can’t think of again. This whole thing feels like slipping, and Daryl was so sure he’d built foundations strong enough to hold back the overflow.

Holding his breath is difficult, but suffocation has proved to be the most effective way to breathe normally again, calming his head down to a point where the thoughts become readable and the emotions can be processed.

It takes a minute, but when Daryl sucks in a breath through labored lungs again they can take the weight of the air that fills them. It doesn’t stop the panic, not really, if anything his head’s worse for the clarity, thoughts he didn’t want to think about forming behind closed eye-lids and burning themselves into his head, dragging along fractured remembrance and painful memories. They lie to him, spit at him, tell him what to do in all the ways he doesn’t want to do it and Daryl wants-

Daryl wants Rick.

He can’t have Rick though, he can’t disappoint him when he’s only just became worth the effort, he can’t slip back into failure when he’s only just risen to success, a phoenix from the ashes that isn’t nearly as immortal as everyone always thought.

His broken nails are tearing into the skin of his bicep, but it honestly feels more like association, new wounds lining up with some of the scars that faded and went away, every pinprick point reminding him of a different grip, a different hand, a different place. 

Forefinger cutting into skin like the wood of a table, middle finger scratching against flesh like tearing fabric, ring finger just catching blood in the hollow groove of a nail like tears falling onto upturned hands and bathing wounds in salt, little finger laying limp, not enough strength to do anything but rest, like a body forced over a table and held down, not enough conviction in the whole world to scream past humiliation. His thumb hurts the most, winds round to the gentle underside of his arm ( _hips_ ) bites in to the flesh like chains (and hands, holding, forcing) keeping him confined and steady ( _and scared, screaming with no noise, shouting with eyes that barely have the energy to form tears_ ).

Daryl rips his hand away from his own arm, looks down at the controlled mess of it and thinks of Philip, of the library, of studying so hard that his eyes watered from fatigue ( _it wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t_ ), his muscles aching from sitting down to long ( _not from sex, it didn’t hurt, not really, I swear it didn’t_ ), silence ringing in his ears ( _not grunts, not moans_ ) words that don’t stick in his mind, don’t catch on threads so torn they can’t function anymore ( _he wasn’t nice enough to whisper, not angry enough to shout_ ).

 _You should study._ He tells himself. _You should suck his dic-_

And he says _‘It never worked.’_ At the same time something whispers _‘Try again.’_

“Daryl?” 

He looks up, almost expects Rick even though the voice is too feminine, some fragile, beaten thing throwing hope at him like confetti and telling him to believe. 

It isn’t Rick, but Daryl recognizes her from Maggie’s party, dark skin and dark hair, white teeth that remind him of the way Rick’s smile looks in the sunlight, brightness so blinding it blesses before it burns. There’s a boy stood beside her, all curls and baby blues that don’t quite hold the sky but make it pretty close. Together they make a good mashup of what Daryl wants to see, and that’s probably the only reason he’s still stood there and not doing what he wants ( _needs_ ) to do. 

The other boy comes forward. “Woah, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Daryl says, holds his breath afterwards so he won’t pant so badly the next time. 

“I’m Aaron.” The boy says, smiles right up until the moment he realizes Daryl isn’t going to smile back. He rubs a hand against the back of his head, fingers catching in curls the same way Rick’s always do. “Sorry, you just… don’t look fine.”

“I’m f-”

“Don’t say it again unless you have a real good reason for the contradiction your face makes to the words.” Michonne says, stepping forward herself. Her hands move towards Daryl’s arm, the one with the fingernail shaped memories, Daryl moves to pull away but he’s backed up against the wall and Michonne doesn’t even falter, grabs onto his arm and doesn’t even glance at the marks, just looks up at Daryl with dark, dark eyes and tightens her grip like she’s trying to hold him together. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Aaron suggests, moves to do the same when Daryl practically falls onto the floor, unsteady legs shaking against the concrete even without the strain of his weight. “You sure you’re okay?”

Michonne sits down to the other side of him, nudges him with her elbow until he glances at her through his bangs. “Don’t lie either.” 

Daryl brings his thumb nail up to his mouth, rips his teeth along the edge of it and doesn’t even care when he tastes blood. “No.”

“Why?” Michonne asks, not particularly affectionate, but with just enough care to let Daryl know she’s actually interested in hearing the answer.

“I have an English test.” _That sounds fucking stupid._

“You think you’ll fail?” Aaron asks, perking up at the prospect of a problem he can actually help with.

Daryl shrugs, doesn’t want to crush the guy’s enthusiasm but knows he probably will anyway. “I know I will.”

“And?” Michonne asks, drags the word out and leans forward to be within his eye contact, leaning her elbow against the tear in her jeans.

“What?”

“What else?” She says, makes a vague motion towards his eyes that might’ve been a point before she decided it was a little bit too accusatory. “I don’t think you’re the type to cry about yourself.”

“I’m gonna disappoint-” Daryl stops, both because he doesn’t want to say the name, not when the risk of it outweighs the help he could receive form anyone knowing, not when Rick could lose the job he loves so much, that makes him happier then Daryl could ever likely make him alone. He also doesn’t think he could choke the name out if he tried, that if he says it he won’t be able to go to Philip, when these two leave him alone and he remembers how little he has to offer anyone and how minuscule the amount he deserves continues to be.

“You don’t have to say it, it’s just someone.” Aaron says, smiling when Daryl looks towards him. He studies Daryl’s expression for a moment, and Daryl must cover his eyes with his bangs a little too late because he works out what Daryl’s thinking anyway. “Someone special?” 

Daryl can’t help but nod, and he doesn’t even need to think about it, because who can look up at the stars, the sky, the sun and think them anything less than extraordinary. 

Aaron’s smile practically splits at the seams. “Do you love them?”

“I don’t know what that feels like.” Daryl says, surprised that the smile stays just as prominent, just as positive. 

“No one does.” Aaron says, doesn’t seem bothered by the admission of misunderstanding at all and Daryl wonders how the hell he can be so comfortable admitting that to himself.

The thought of not knowing is what scares Daryl the most, not knowing how the test will turn out, not able to anticipate the level of Rick’s disappointment, not able to understand the meanings of things enough to use the words that summarize them and how can he ever tell Rick he loves him if he can’t work out the feeling.

“I thought love was such a massive leap of faith.” Aaron sighs, talks like Rick does when he’s explaining something, all slow and steady and stable. “But thinking about it, it’s the smallest step in the world.”

Daryl bows his head, picks at the section of nail he’d half bitten off earlier. “How did you know-?”

“You can’t sum it up, can’t explain it.” Aaron shakes his head with a smile, his curls not quite long enough to fall onto his forehead, not wild enough to make Daryl want to smooth them down, move them away and kiss the skin he exposes. “You’ve gotta feel it.”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling.” Daryl says, feels Michonne shift slightly closer towards him, placing her entire side against his and reminding him of Carl when the kid knew he was upset and forced contact on him. He couldn’t even call it forced, not when both of them knew it’s what he wanted, what he needed.

“Crying’s a good way to know you’re feeling something.” Aaron says, nudges up to Daryl on his own side, making him feel compacted in a way that isn’t as claustrophobic as he’s imagined. “And something is a start.”

Daryl thinks he should be embarrassed that they saw that, the breakdown that hadn’t felt so much like a break as a crack and Daryl supposes at the very least he should be glad he’s not yet fully broken. The flush on his cheeks reminds him of humiliation, but it doesn’t have the same level of shame it used to and Daryl thinks he’s beginning to like the warmth, the blood that brightens his cheeks and lets him feel alive.

Aaron nudges his arm until he has his attention, points to his face just slightly when he looks up. “The feelings are already there Daryl.”

Daryl looks towards the floor, opens his mouth as if to say something before realizing he has nothing to say. Daryl isn’t fluent in feelings, but Aaron seems like the type of person who lends the translation as easily as the understanding.

Aaron sighs, and Daryl looks up to find him glancing towards the sky, eyes closed until they flicker back to Daryl’s own. “Love’s just the word we use to describe something indescribable.”

“You waxing poetic at me?” Daryl says, not nearly as confident as he wanted it to be but far enough away from crying to pass.

“You did say it was an English test,” Aaron jests, makes a vague motion to the wall behind which rests the English rooms. “Poetry might help.”

“It’s English language.” Daryl says, smiles anyway because as unhelpful as his reasoning was his words helped more than he’ll ever know.

“Mr Grimes, right?” Michonne asks, watching the way Daryl’s head stoops as he nods, gaze coming to rest on the concrete and staying there. “Why don’t you go see him, ask?”

Daryl shakes his head again, looking up towards her just fractionally. “I don’t want to disappoint-”

Aaron can’t even see Daryl’s face, but something about the tone of voice reminds him of himself, when Eric wanted to go hiking and damn near broke his ankle on the trail and Aaron had been so worried it’d taken him a couple of minutes to calm down and listen to Eric telling him he was fine. The link between words solidifies the guesswork, the same painful sentence, the same acknowledgement of care disguised as misplaced concern.

“Teachers are disappointed all the time.” Aaron says, smiling the brightest smile he possible can when Daryl turns to face him, hoping that if Daryl’s sees the understanding in his eyes, acceptance will balance out the worry. “That’s why they never give up.”

“Come on.” Michonne says, when Daryl can’t find the words to say anything and isn’t sure he can find the strength to stand. “He’s probably still here.”

It takes Daryl a little while to stand, both because every part of him screams his own betrayal at him and because the legs that have been yearning to walk in any way relevant to Rick Grimes have suddenly decided to freeze. The noise of straggling pupils still making their way from the building doesn’t help, makes him wish for one selfish second that Rick never became a teacher, even if it makes him so happy, if only so Daryl could curl up in his lap right here and now without the worry of taking everything he loves from him while the memories of having it are so fresh. 

Aaron and Michonne are patient, let him sit there until the sounds of footsteps walk their way towards silence and his own feet feel capable of making their way towards home.

He’s flocked on either side, not touched, but tentatively tethered to them regardless, leading him away from mistakes and back into everything he ever did right. 

They don’t make it to the English room, not when Rick comes running out of the building and straight at Daryl like he was following a lighthouse, uncaring of the jagged rocks that so often put people off approaching. Daryl feels Aaron and Michonne pull away from him as soon as Rick has a hand on his shoulder, a grip that’s just slightly too desperate for the way a teacher should touch a student. Aaron and Michonne walk away anyway, a lingering touch to the small of his back as he turns to watch them leave, like uncertain sirens who got confused with dragging a sailor out to sea, saw what was waiting for him and sent him back to the shore with smiles on their faces and kindness in their hearts.

Rick pulls his rucksack off of his shoulder, throws it over his own and places a trembling hand against the small of Daryl’s back, leads him over to his car and pushes him gently into the passenger seat. He takes a moment to just breathe, looking at Daryl through the window like this was as far as he got in his planning, find Daryl and put him in the car, safe as he can make him and secure as he needs him to be. He snaps out of it soon enough, walks round to the driver seat and turns on the engine, throwing both of their bags into the back and pulling out of the car park onto the main road.

Daryl doesn’t speak, can almost see the rate in which Rick’s thoughts are processing and decides not to interrupt them. 

He doesn’t know where they’re going until a few roads away from the park, can just see the yellow and white speckled sight of the field in the distance, wonders if Rick’s bringing him here because he thinks Daryl needs it or because he does. Rick pulls up at the park, gets out on his side and doesn’t even care about the people who may or may not be there. He walks round to the passenger seat, opens Daryl’s door and motions for him to turn and face him, gets down on his knees as soon as he does.

Rick reaches over Daryl’s lap to the glove box, opens it up and rifles through paperwork until he finds a small first aid box. Daryl finds it a little odd that he has one, supposes having a child with a rapidly growing interest in football must have led to some injuries that actually required general care.

Rick reaches for Daryl’s arm so gently it hurts, not the wounds themselves so much as the painful, jagged emotions that come with seeing so much care. He wipes at the marks with something that must be antiseptic in one way or another, ripping into a bandage with his teeth and wrapping it around them, tying in into a little knot and letting the arm rest back by Daryl’s side.

Daryl’s reminded of broken plates, wonders how broken thoughts could shatter as much as ceramic.

That time had led to hugs, but Daryl wasn’t entirely sure if he was deserving of one right now.

In the end, Rick doesn’t hug him so much as fall into him, leaning on his knees in dirty gravel and letting himself fall until he can wrap his arms around Daryl’s waist, lean his torso into the gap between Daryl’s thighs and press his face into Daryl’s stomach. Daryl doesn’t know what to do immediately, trails a gentle hand across Rick’s shoulder and lays another against his hair. It doesn’t seem like enough, not when Rick’s practically shaking against him, not when his own limbs feel just as unstable.

Neither of them really know how long they sit there, once Daryl’s caved forward enough to practically curl around Rick, hand curling into the base of his head and nose practically touching it as well, but Rick breathes into his stomach for a long time and Daryl’s own air ruffles the hair he grips so tightly and neither of them mind if the sun sets before they find it within themselves to move because such unburdened intimacy doesn’t belong in the daytime, not when no one should see it but themselves.

When they do move, they don’t let go of each other completely, Rick grabbing Daryl’s hand in his own and pulling him towards the field, not letting go until he can lay down among dandelions and pull Daryl into his chest. The dandelions are just turning white, and the seeds were disturbed by Rick’s stride and caught in the breeze generated by every one of his movements and despite everything, Daryl doesn’t think he’d ever seen Rick look more powerful.

“Where did you go?” Rick asks, once the seeds have settled and the air around them is still.

“Round the corner.” Daryl says, fiddles with the button of Rick’s shirt. “Panicked.”

Rick tilts his head down to look at him, his eyelids resting so far over his eyes Daryl is denied a view of them. “What about?”

“Thought about doing something stupid.” Daryl says, runs a finger over the place Rick’s scar rests, places his palm over the top of it and tries to feel it through the fabric, wonders if Rick’s ever felt his own, if he’s been kind enough to never mention it.

“Why?” Rick asks, brings a hand up to run his fingers through Daryl’s hair, pulls the strands up so the light of the setting sun can catch on them, paint them as gold as Daryl deserves to be.

“Because I panicked.” Daryl says, tilts his head up into the touch and moves his arm from Rick’s scar to his wrist, traces the place one no doubt used to rest, not sure if he’s glad it faded or he wishes it remained to see.

“About the test?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to worry about it anymore.” Rick says, references to so much more then he knows, lets Daryl scoot up towards him and curl his head into his neck, fastens a hand around Daryl’s shoulder to keep him there, let him feel the words as easily as he hears them.

“I know I won’t get hurt.” Daryl whispers, his breath tickling Rick’s throat and making him shiver. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Rick says, closes his eyes to the feeling. “You couldn’t.”

Daryl doesn’t respond, takes comfort in the words anyway. He watches his breath fan out against Rick’s skin, glad he regained it if only so he could make the goosebump markings crawl up Rick’s throat and stretch down to his collarbone, painting him in braille and making Daryl wish he was fluent if only to read the work he prints onto Rick’s skin.

“What did you think about doing?” Rick asks, breathes out a sigh as Daryl places an uncertain kiss to his collarbone.

“There’s this guy at the library, Philip.” Daryl says, moves a hand back to Rick’s chest and curls his hand into the shirt, tries to ground himself enough to stay here with Rick forever. “I used to go there a lot to study, thought about going back.”

Rick rest a hand over the one Daryl placed on his chest, squeezes it encouragingly. “That’s not a bad thing, Daryl.”

“He only ever let me stay there if he could fuck me.” The fist loosens but doesn’t let go. “It is a bad thing.”

Rick lies very still beneath Daryl, and the steady motion of his breathing, that which had been lulling Daryl into such a sense of calm falls still. Daryl glances up at his jawline, can practically see the clench of his teeth, the tension radiating off of him in waves. 

“You’re angry at me.” He says, rests his chin ever so gently against the hollow of Rick’s throat.

“Never.” Rick says, the vibration of his voice doing a good job of relaxing Daryl in the absence of his steady breathing. “I’m not disappointed either. I’m just sad.”

Daryl slides his head back to his shoulder, rest his ear against the bone. “Because of me.”

“Because of what’s been done to you.” Rick clarifies, lifts a hand to tap Daryl’s head, smoothing through the hair he disturbs. “What it’s done to this.” 

“I’m not crazy.” Daryl whispers, even though he can’t be sure himself.

“I know you’re not.” It’s little more than air, and it starts up the rhythm of Rick’s diaphragm again. “Neither was I.”

Daryl’s head tilts up at the reference to Rick’s past anxiety, looks towards him carefully. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Rick sighs, looks down towards Daryl until his neck hurts, not even caring because the sight that greets him is well worth any level of pain. “You?”

“I am now.”

Daryl shifts even closer to Rick, until their legs are tangled as much as their air and the rapidly cooling breeze can do nothing to stop the heat between them. Daryl moves his head just slightly to the left, enough so Rick’s steady heartbeat can be heard, soothing the chaotic waves the tear around Daryl’s head.

“Will we be okay?” He asks, so softly Rick almost doesn’t hear it.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Rick says, just as softly, the breeze carrying the message to Daryl just as the sky commands it to. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know sweetheart is sort of Judy's name, but I thought it fit, and Judy isn't in this one. I use darling all the time so I thought I'd change it up a little. :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who supports this story! Every kudos, comment, bookmark, everyone who just stops by to read, I appreciate you all so very much!
> 
> This chapter's a little crap, but I've been trying really hard to get this story done before I start my apprenticeship full time! I'm on track, but I couldn't actually rewrite any of this so it's going to have to do! Sorry about that! But I'd also like to say how happy I am that you all have such lovely things to say about this story! I hadn't planned to make it a multi chap, I didn't expect it to get this long and I started writing it in the middle of my GCSE's (the tests you take in England when you're leaving high school), so thank you for accepting such a hurried, cobbled together plot and putting up with my overuse of metaphors! You're all the best! :)
> 
> WARNING- For discussion of/reference to child sexual abuse.

The week passes as slowly as it normally does, and Daryl’s ridiculously grateful to Rick for not only holding him together, but giving the whole class a couple of weeks before the test to study.

His level of stress fluctuates, there one minute and gone the next, swinging like a pendulum behind closed eyes and uncertain as to which way means what. Rick’s there as his counterbalance, takes his stress and pulls it right back down to neutral, takes everything he’s ever experienced himself and pushes it towards Daryl, lets him take it if he wants to and ignore it if he doesn’t.

It helps a lot of the time, and the smallest touches can drag Daryl away from studying and back into sanctuary. 

He never used to believe it existed, but there’s something about Rick that makes him feel so amazingly stable, stable enough to rest on something as treacherous as safety. Sanctuary had always been unreachable, the relaxation Dixons didn’t deserve to experience and weren’t dedicated enough to find. All the places Daryl had ever known were dangerous, had the potential to be even if they weren’t, and maybe it isn’t a place, maybe Rick Grimes is just safe enough to hand Daryl sanctuary where none can be found.

Maybe it isn’t even completely Rick, as much as everything in Daryl’s life seems to gravitate towards him. There’s the possibility, clinging to the edge of Daryl’s mind, that his new found safety might’ve been down to himself, at least partially, the first few steps before he stumbled and was carried to the finish line. It encroaches onto some idea of pride and when arms come to settle around his shoulders and a kiss is pressed against his neck it only amplifies the feeling of accomplishment.

Strangely enough, the loosely wrapped feel of Rick’s arms around his neck reminds him of Lacy’s collar, that concerned constriction that had somehow held her steady but kept her happy. It hadn’t made sense at the time, Daryl finding sympathy in it, feeling the small, undeveloped feeling of pity curling towards something that couldn’t even acknowledge it. Now he’s surprised he got away without the security of it so long, the knowledge that constriction, at the very least, means he isn’t wandering aimlessly, that he has somewhere to be.

Rick's stubble scratches at his skin, but the small hurt doesn’t overthrow the softness of lips against his neck and Daryl wonders if the contrast of it isn’t what makes it so good.

Daryl himself brings his hands up to Rick’s forearm, wraps both of them around it and presses his nose down into the skin, chin folding comfortably against his own neck to fit into the gap, warm air bridging the space between them and heating Daryl’s skin. He doesn’t look at Rick, focuses his eyes onto the book in front of him and knows which one is momentarily more important.

Funny how that line is so easily blurred. 

“You’re being a bad influence.” Daryl says, leaning back to rest against Rick’s shoulder and dragging his arm along with him.

“Am I?” Rick asks, mouthing at the skin of Daryl’s collarbone like he doesn’t know how much of a distraction he’s being.

Daryl nods, lets go of Rick’s arm to motion towards the books in front of him. “I’m trying to study.”

“I know.” Rick says, moves away from Daryl just slightly to rest his hands on either one of his shoulder, gently pushes into the muscle and frowns.

Daryl grunts slightly, leaning back into Rick regardless. “Aren’t you supposed to help me with this?”

“I am.” Rick says, moving so both his hands run down Daryl’s arms, grasp loosely onto his wrists. “You’re tense.”

“I was gonna take a bath.” Daryl admits, turns his head so he can see Rick out of his peripheral. He’s blurred because of it, stubble looking more like a beard and eyes not as crisp as Daryl knows them to be, looking more like the uncertain tranquility of fall rather than the steady clarity of summer.

Rick tilts his head to meet his eyes. “What’s stopping you?”

Rick moving pushes him into focus, and although it’s difficult to escape something so all-consuming, Daryl tries his best to resist obsession. He looks towards the books, tries not to make the silence seem intentional. As obvious as any answer would be to someone like Rick, his perception often wounds himself as easily as it does Daryl. 

Daryl had wanted a bath since the ever-present ache of tension had established itself into his muscles, reminding him too much of pain to be ignored. His back is as sensitive a place as it is a topic of conversation and though the feel of water should help him unwind the memorable links towards it do nothing but yank at tension and tie his entire nervous system into knots.

He knows what he did last time he was in the bath, and it’s stupid that after so much time and so much personal growth he still thinks he’ll wilt into the water, rest in the tranquility and find peace in absolution. He’s only just keeping himself afloat, and the idea of adding something so crucial to drowning makes him question his own self-reliance in surviving.

That he thinks of surviving as opposed to living is another problem entirely.

“Come on.” Rick says, pulling gently at the wrist his hand encircles, not letting up until Daryl rises from his seat and follows him to the bathroom.

They pass by Carl’s room as they go and Daryl can’t resist stopping for a moment to appreciate such honest relaxation when he’s struggling so hard to find his own. He knows Carl hasn’t experienced the things he has, and he never wants him to have to adapt to things like that, to crush the unwound tension with something as heavy as Daryl’s own tangled mess of panic. Still, he can’t deny the small, clotting feeling of envy that ever so quietly reminds him of everything he never had, everything he’s missed in life and will never have enough years to get back.

There’s no redefining innocence, when it’s gone, it’s gone.

Everyone speaks of naivety like it’s such a bad thing, and although Daryl never knew the confine of innocence long enough to realize the negativity of it, he can’t help but think he’s missed more by not understanding the positives. The people that speak of naivety in any such bad light are those Daryl will never understand. Maybe because it rests, so tentatively placed, with all else he’s yet to experience and never will, high on a pedestal under light bright enough to expose all imperfections.

Despite that, Daryl can find none, no area of his mind that looks at anything so sheltered from him and considers it a commonplace concept. They’re precious to him, because as much as he has had to learn the terror in all that’s tender, these things exclude the rules, sit somewhere close to Rick in his divinity, the shadows that fall onto them the very same ones Rick casts, to hide what he should never see from eyes that can’t quite stop searching.

Rick pulls him away softly, nudges him into the bathroom and closes the door behind them. Daryl would be reminded of the last time he stood here with this very same intention but Rick stands beside the door this time, not behind it, and although the care has always been there it seems much more conscientious of everything Daryl’s tried so hard to keep organized, from toppling back into the chaos it once remembers being. That, and there’s something about his smile that pushes air into Daryl’s lungs, oxygenates the ocean. It makes Daryl believe he can float, even above his own idiosyncrasies. 

He practically sits Daryl on the edge of the bath, leaning over him to turn on the taps and Daryl can’t resist the urge to wrap his arms around his waist and hold on, mold Rick to himself like a life jacket and never let either of them deflate enough to drown.

“Sandalwood.” He explains, leaning around Daryl to grab one of the bottles next to him and Daryl doesn’t so much hear the word as feel the vibration of it against his cheek.

“As long as it ain’t some flowery shit.” Daryl says, smirks against Rick’s stomach.

Rick pulls back from him, crouches down onto the floor and balances himself with a hand on each of Daryl’s knees. “I’ll move you onto the lavender soon enough.”

Daryl huffs, looks to the side so he doesn’t have to look at anything else, be it Rick or the water that circulates the tub and reminds Daryl of those impossible times where pain was both more hurtful and less evasive. Rick stands, pulls off his jacket and crouches back down again, moves a hand to Daryl’s jaw and tilts his face towards him.

“How do you wanna do this?” He asks, a thumb just caressing the edge of Daryl’s jaw.

Daryl looks from his eyes to the tub and back again. “What?”

“Something tells me that this,” Rick touches the edge of Daryl’s shirt, just fiddling with a button. “Is important.”

“It’s stupid.” Daryl says, brushes Rick’s hand off the button a little harsher than he had intended to. It’s a sore subject, one that doesn’t stand a chance of being soothed by something as commonplace as water.

“Your comfort is the farthest thing from stupid.” Rick argues, brings a hand up to fiddle with the button again. 

He doesn’t move to undo it, does nothing more than absentmindedly play with it, but Daryl still has to take a breath, takes one and holds it because the anticipation of not being able to, makes him what the comfort of already having one. It doesn’t work its way out smoothly, comes out jagged and labored and Rick’s eyes move from the button to his own straight away. Daryl tries to pull it off by breathing in evenly again, but it ends up just as disjointed.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” Rick asks, doesn’t make any move towards him other than with his words.

Daryl closes his eyes, tries to focus on the smooth feeling of Rick’s hand as it moves up and down the outside of his thigh, match his breathing to it and calm down because Rick hasn’t even given him a reason to panic.

“Hey, hey.” Rick says, puts a hand on either side of Daryl’s face and waits until their eyes meet. “This is relaxing, there’s no room for panic here, there’s no need.”

He moves one hand down to the hollow of his throat, lets his hand rest there and strokes a thumb against the hammering beat of his pulse. Unsurprisingly, his traitor’s heart sides with someone else, obeys Rick where it had disobeyed him. What does Daryl know, maybe Rick already owns it and it’s just doing what it’s told.

Rick pulls him up of the edge of the bath. “Come on.” 

“What are you doing?” Daryl asks, watches as Rick settles down into the water, clothes and all with his back pressed against the ceramic and his legs spread.

“Get in the bath, it's okay.” Rick says, reaching a hand towards him.

“Wet clothes aren’t exactly relaxing.” Daryl quips, takes the hand even if he doesn’t move towards the bath.

“Neither is watching you cry.” Rick says, squeezes his hand and shifts back in the bath so Daryl has even more room. “Come on.”

Daryl steps in, gets down to his knees and ever so carefully rests his weight back against Rick’s chest. The weight of the water rests heavily, their clothes only adding to it, but the water soothes against the bottom of Daryl’s cramped tailbone and Rick’s arms around his waist make him feel lighter than clothes could ever hope to weigh down.

“Better?” Rick asks, watching Daryl bend his head down into his chest and kissing the back of his neck when it’s bared.

“It will be.” Daryl says, lets his head roll back into Rick’s shoulder and turns it into the hollow of his throat. 

They sit for a while, Rick gently running his hands from the base of Daryl’s rib cage to his hips, stopping when he gets there and trying to soothe away the resulting tension. It feels tranquil, and Rick loathes to chase that feeling away, but the thoughts invading his head make it difficult to relax at any time of the day, and the words slip free before Rick can pull them back.

“About yesterday,” He starts, almost cringes at the tension he feels through Daryl’s shoulders, leans down to kiss the cloth covering one in an attempt to soothe it. “Jimmy, Philip, they weren’t the only two?”

“No.” Daryl sighs, moving his own hand to stir up the water, shrugs his shoulder in either an attempt at indifference or to move Rick. “It’s pretty disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting.” Rick says, moves whether Daryl meant him to or not, pressing his lips to the shell of Daryl’s ear. “And you’ve got to stop using such negative words to describe my ocean.”

Daryl doesn’t shrug this time, as much as Rick thinks he may have wanted to, moves into Rick’s touch instead. “The ocean’s a little bit bigger than I am, it’s probably disgusting too, just more widespread.”

“Vastness pales in comparison to this.” Rick whispers, pulls Daryl just a little bit tighter against him. 

“A bath tub?” Daryl snorts, self-depreciation present in every inch of his humor.

“You.” Rick says, shifts forward to kiss Daryl’s cheek, rest there so he can watch his reactions. “If I could gather the ocean and give it form, it wouldn’t compare to the one I already have.”

Daryl tilts his head until he has eye contact. “You haven’t seen the state yours is in yet.” 

“I know it’s not disgusting.” Rick says, blocks the motion Daryl makes to look away and drags him back. “Everything beautiful thinks it isn’t, how could they ever have their own classifications of beauty if they had to constantly compare it to themselves?”

Daryl huffs. “Not much of a comparison.”

“Hell of a contrast to what you’re thinking.” Rick says, so close to Daryl’s skin that the words practically etch themselves onto it.

Daryl looks down into the water, sways his hand through it in the same way Rick’s stroking against his hip. While it doesn’t remind him of other, less favorable grips, the way the scabbed wounds on his arm catch against ceramic do, and that, as well as whatever Rick put in the water, is probably what makes Daryl the correct combination between tense and some fragile variation of relaxed enough to speak.

“Sometimes…” He starts, takes a breath and lets the exhale blow ripples across the water’s surface. “Merle’s dealers would come round, while he was in prison, and they’d want their money.”

Rick’s hand shifts back towards his ribs, and as much as it’s a distracted movement, he knows Rick’s listening to every word.

“We never had any.” Daryl says, lets out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup, something that might’s been intended as a laugh. “So I used what I had.”

Rick doesn’t stop stroking his ribs, places a kiss against his hair. “That doesn’t make you disgusting.”

“It makes me dirty.” Daryl says, strokes an absent minded finger down Rick’s thigh. “Used goods.”

“Your perception of yourself is the dirtiest thing in this room.” Rick eases Daryl back down into his chest, a hand over his heart to keep him steady. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s reflecting.” _Reflecting the dirt cause it’s all dirty, everything is._

Rick shakes his head, curls gently brushing Daryl’s cheek. “It’s distorting.”

Rick has to take a moment, think about the things he’s heard and how to move forward. Daryl’s mirrors are all broken, replaying fractured picture onto fractured picture and making everything seem fragile. Rick doesn’t want to let go of him, because as strong as Rick knows him to be he’s well aware of how easily strong can shatter.

“Your actions don’t define you.” He decides on, brushes a section of Daryl’s hair behind his ear.

Daryl tilts his neck up, lets Rick kiss his way along the column of his throat, feels his breath catch and doesn’t even feel panicked. “Just shape me.” 

“Shapes can be molded.” Rick argues, blows against the skin and smiles as Daryl shivers, the breathy little whisper it pulls forward. “Angles change.”

“What’s the angle of prostitution?” Daryl asks, turns his head to face Rick and scowls at him.

“Necessity.” Rick says, never looking away from his eyes. “I won’t hate you for surviving.”

“Barely managed that.” Daryl points out, something in his eyes telling Rick it hurts to admit it.

“You’re here,” Rick soothes, trails an abstract pattern down the front of Daryl’s chest, rest a hand against his heart as if in proof. “You’re alive.”

Daryl smiles, the ocean staying cold as ice despite the warmth within it. “Barely managed that.”

Rick looks at him, studies the tremble establishing itself in the smile and the shiver that lodges it's way into his limbs. It had nothing to do with the water, nothing to do with panic, it’s a feeling that Rick’s only seen fleetingly, the type of sadness that tries so very hard to disguise itself as happiness and threatens indifference when its camouflage is threatened.

“I love you.” Rick says, unplanned and so obviously unanticipated.

Daryl’s entire face just crumples, his head shaking in the most startling disparity to his limbs. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.” Rick soothes, keeps his hands wrapped loosely around Daryl’s waist and doesn’t try for any contact that could be shoved away.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, what I-!” Daryl says, tries to bring a hand up to rub his face and realizes too late that it’s already wet.

“Daryl-”

“No!” He says, the horrible vibrato of tears threatening appearance in the crack of his voice. “You don’t, you can’t-”

Rick tightens his arms, raises his knees to settle the shake of Daryl’s own, echoing hushing noises into Daryl’s ear. He unwinds an arm from around Daryl’s waist, brings it up to the ones covering his face and tries his best to pry it free from the iron clad grip Daryl’s fingers have wound into his own hair. It’s more Daryl’s will than his own that gets them to drop, splashing into the water in what may, or may not have been an attempt to hide the moisture already on them.

“Why does me saying I love you hurt you so much?” Rick asks, keeping a loose grip on the hands to keep them covering the emotions he’s trying so hard to understand.

Daryl opens his mouth to say something, trails off into a noise not unlike a whine. “If I never knew it you couldn’t take it back.”

“I won’t take it back.” Rick promises, let’s go of a wrist to move his hand to Daryl’s cheek, uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away a stray tear.

“Yes you will.” Daryl says, takes a breath that’s deeper than the capacity of his lungs and relishes the burn it causes. “You don’t know.”

“What don’t I know?” Rick says, knowing the answers are endless but needing to hear one all the same.

“Everything.” Daryl says, twists round in the water when he can’t catch Rick’s eyes properly, rolls his wrist over the tear tracks on his cheeks and sits up onto his knees. 

“I don’t need to know everything about you to love everything you are.” Rick says, as honestly as he can, a hand coming to rest on both of Daryl’s thighs.

Daryl looks at him for a long time, settles back down onto his haunches and just stares. It’s only when his eyes shift down to Rick a moment later that he realizes he wasn’t actually looking at him in the first place. Daryl bites his lip, halts the tremble so the words can fall with some kind of clarity, can be heard, and known and accepted by Rick in whatever way he wants to so long as he understands what Daryl is trying to warn him about.

“When I was thirteen I let some guy tie me down and cum all over me.” 

Rick doesn’t let anything show on his face, keeps his hand resolutely placed on Daryl’s thighs and tries not to think about how he says ‘let’, ‘let’ like he was in control, like he had any say in the matter, like he wanted it just as much as they did and that’s why he ‘let’ them do it. Most of all he tries not to think that Daryl was two years older than his son, that some grown man could tie down a boy and willingly do that to them. Rick’s spent a lot of time trying to believe in the best of people and something in that picture makes that belief sound fundamentally wrong. 

“Fourteen. Didn’t do a damn thing about some guy bringing his buddies along for a go.”

He doesn’t look away, not like Daryl’s eyes are practically daring (begging) him to. The ocean’s overflowing, and Rick can’t help but think Shane might’ve been right when he said it’s hard to hold back, not just for Rick but for Daryl, who looks as angry at his own tears as he is at the words. Rick wonders when he started linking remembrance to ridicule, and wonders if that was the way it always was.

“Must’ve been fifteen, one of Dad’s friends choked me, made me call him ‘Daddy’ and I didn’t say no, I didn’t tell him to stop!”

Rick flinches at the name, doesn’t let the abortive movement break the eye contact he still has, looks directly into the ocean and braces himself for the storm. There’s something about this one that makes Daryl sob, probably the most heart wrenching sound Rick’s ever heard beside his own son’s screams.

“And then…” Daryl falters, has to dig his nails into his thigh to keep going. “Then this guy came over started calling me the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and I-”

He can’t even finish the sentence and Rick can’t say anything to help him, not when the words are blocked by the uncomfortable press of tears and the pressure of the whole situation feels like a weight on his chest. 

Daryl falls forward, grabs a fistful of Rick’s hair and meshes their lips together, practically straddling him in his attempt to get closer before Rick brings his hands up and pushes him away. Rick encircles both his arms with his own, pulls him back over into the water and couldn’t give less of a shit when it splashes all over the floor. He pulls Daryl back down to his chest, arms steady and securing but as un-constrictive as he can make them while still keeping Daryl still.

“No, you’re not doing this, you’re not.” Rick says, when Daryl makes a motion to turn back towards him.

Daryl bucks, practically snarls at Rick, but the movements weak and the snarl tapers off into another sob and his head falls like he's naught but a puppet and his strings are cut.

“You’re not doing that to me.” Rick says, tries to breathe through his own tears and still get the words out somewhat coherently. “You’re not doing that to _yourself_.”

Daryl’s head falls back onto his shoulder, turning it into his throat when Rick makes no move to stop him, the bitter feel of tears on his skin making him loosen his hold on Daryl further. 

“I don’t care if I never touch you.” He says, honestly as he can. “I don’t care if you never want me to _look_ at your skin.” 

There’s something in his voice that’s deeper than Daryl’s ever heard it, the type of pain that messes up your vocal chords so much it distorts any sound that wants to come out of it.

“But don’t you _dare_ try and turn me into one of the people who hurt you because you told me you wouldn’t!”

Rick feels Daryl bring his constricted arms around the ones Rick holds him with, tangling his hands around them in a mimicry of the way he had earlier and Rick belatedly thinks he’s a fucking idiot for thinking something like this was a good idea when the accumulation of it was so disastrous. 

“You say it like it’s your fault, you were a child Daryl!” Rick says, the exclamation more in the tone of it than the volume, the pitch too low to be anything other than hurt. “A child!”

“I never said no.” Daryl says, stronger than a sob but weaker than anything other than a whisper.

“There’s more to consent than words.” Rick stresses, twists until he can see Daryl properly, would count the tears falling down pale cheeks if he cared for anything past the pain that was there. “If that happened to Carl, if he didn’t say no, would that be his fault?”

Daryl shakes his head so violently Rick’s momentarily worried he’s going to hurt himself. “No!”  
“Then why is it yours.” Rick presses, waits until the ocean settles enough to properly reflect the sky’s pain, an eternal loop of hurt that makes a mockery of the supposed beauty of it all. “And if you dare say it's because of you I swear to-”

“I’m sorry.” Daryl says, so quietly that a drip of water from the tap in front of them almost overwhelms it completely.

He’s fiddling with the ring on Rick’s finger, twisting it where the water has made it loose. There’s nothing directed to the movement, more like Rick’s old habit with elastics than anything specific to the ring, but Rick can see the ring and Daryl in the same shot, see the connection and the contradiction and it’s almost too easy to reach up to his hand, slide the ring off his finger and place it on the tub beside him.

Daryl stops, brushes a careful finger over the exposed skin, whiter than the rest after fifteen years with no light, and almost abnormally sensitive after no touch.

“I love you.” He says, wraps his arms firmly back around Daryl’s waist and braces himself for anything that might bring.

Daryl just falls over Rick’s arms, practically sobbing into the water, feeling the brush of Rick’s air on his neck paint the words onto his skin like braille, his own tears falling into the water and spelling it out in Morse, and maybe they don’t need to speak to understand each other, maybe all the have to do is feel.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again to every single person who continues to support this story! The feedback is amazing and I'm so glad all of you are sticking in there! Thank you :)
> 
> This chapter's a little bit slower, but I assure you the pace picks up next time! :)

By the time Daryl’s calmed down enough to sleep, Rick’s riled enough to be unable to.

He’s looped an arm around Daryl’s waist, holding him to his side as tightly as he can with the smallest amount of pressure he’s able to apply. He doesn’t know whether he’d done it for Daryl or for himself, to keep Daryl by his side or too remind himself that Daryl’s there. 

Rick runs a finger of the arm not clinging to Daryl like a lifeline, over the band of white skin left behind in absence of a ring. It feels bare, not in a bad way, not in any way particularly revealing, just clean, refreshed, like he’s shed his skin of all the unnecessary dirt he carried on it. Like he'd stripped himself of the weight he drags round with him as burdens, and left them lying where they belong, a legacy long left behind and abandoned. 

It feels minuscule, compared to what Daryl's shared. Taking off a long held burden is small compared to getting one off your chest, and Daryl’s carried his longer than Rick could ever imagine having the strength to deal with.

It’s crippled emotions, contemplated as if Daryl was dedicated to the secret. Praying to the secrecy of it all, sitting communion with lies and preaching to the people who hurt him. The way he said it all was a reverent pain, spoke of wounds that, in some bitter way, had earned Daryl’s respect, remained septic long enough to draw attention as it did feeling.

There’s suppression in that, repression as well, and (if Rick were of conscious enough mind to think of rhyme) he wouldn’t hesitate to say depression is largely evident also. It lends Rick the looking glass, the patchwork evidence of why Daryl responds and reacts to things in the way he does. The anger at the theft of something he never had time to treasure, the pain of things he hadn't the experience to understand, the panic of revelation, that of the divine as much as those who, to Rick at least, classify as anything but.

Rick looks down towards Daryl, can’t help but think himself justified in comparing him to the ocean. Enough space to dilute all that overpowers him and enough culmination to make the climax inevitable, the waves breaking against the rocks and scattering secrets along the shoreline, laid out and bared among shells like snippets of happiness that then fade into the sand like sadness.

Daryl always says he’s on the ground, that he fought his way down. Rick can’t help but think he’s still flying, wings bared against the light and casting shadows on everything he was in order to illuminate that which he’s trying to be. The thought of it makes Rick sad, like the distant landscaped image of broken feathers floating on violent waves, the vague tranquility of chaos. He knows this will hit Daryl hard, that plummeting from a height you weren’t aware you leveled at and crashing into everything you are feels like flayed skin and broken bones and everything Daryl used to dream about.

Rick hopes he has enough of Daryl’s emotions invested in himself, so he can lend them perspective, strength even, if that’s what Daryl’s willing to take. If only to prevent against the alternative, the crushing weight of impact and waves that drag you far, far away from the beauty of distance, the peace found in being too far away to recognize violence.

Selfishly, he hopes Daryl finds love first, picks up a frayed feather and associates it with doves. Can look up at Rick with something so close to happiness itself and say ‘I love you too’ with a smile on his face that might not yet shine, but has the potential to illuminate a room.

He hopes Daryl can still find love, that it isn’t buried deep underwater where wings can’t spread, where emotions are left to drown out and deteriorate. 

The ocean is beautiful, as is the sky, and for all the benefits of unlimited space it’s so easy to get lost, the type of lost that doesn’t want to come back, that doesn’t want to risk captivity for fear of losing what it means to be free.

 _I’m getting too deep into this._ Rick thinks, wonders how he could do anything else when Daryl, the ocean in all but form, just showed him one of the deepest parts of himself.

Depth is so elemental, the intensity, the extremity. In some ways, it’s responsible for the understanding of emotion, the ability to judge something, the extent of feeling, the level of sensation. It’s perspective, how far perspective can go, and what is the basis of perspective if not -

Understanding.

And isn’t that what Rick always wanted, the understanding that comes from knowing the depths Daryl’s difficulties go to, the weight that pulls them down, down, down, out of reach and range?

Daryl nudges further into Rick, breathes out something around a sigh and Rick's glad, at the very least, that Daryl can gravitate closer to him in unconsciousness, that such fragility clings to him like he can prevent its destruction. 

Rick smiles, because he knows he’ll do his utmost.

“Mornin’” Daryl mouths, the feel of it against his collarbone the only reason he understood it, and maybe, like he thought yesterday, there’s more in that than he realizes.

“Morning.” Rick brings a hand up to Daryl’s hair, unable to stop the motion of touching something that feels so soft, not when his inhibitions are so nullified by the morning. 

Daryl traces a red line marring Rick’s collarbone, something in his mind telling him that it’s from his flailing yesterday, even if he has no particular proof it is. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s never a good way to start the day.” Rick says, brings a hand up to lower Daryl’s own back to his chest and rests it on top of a healed mark rather than a healing one, one that Daryl knows was not put there by his own doing. 

Daryl sighs, props himself up onto his elbow and looks at Rick. “S’why I didn’t say ‘good’ morning.” 

“It is a good morning.” Rick says, looks towards the blinds and sees the steady tiger stripe sunrise as it paints the room gold, looks back just in time to see Daryl’s hair adopt the color.

Daryl snorts, wonders if Rick’s concept of the passing of time runs a lot slower than Daryl’s own, or whether his memory doesn’t linger so much as it leaves him entirely. Maybe they drop him off somewhere distant from them, where he can paint Daryl in shining light and cast shadows that aren’t dark enough to make up for the misplaced illumination. 

“You’re here, Carl’s here and no one’s crying.” Rick lists, tapping a finger on one of Daryl’s ribs for each point, studiously avoiding the one that’s painful, knowing even if Daryl’s never told him about it. “The checklist says it’s a good morning.”

“Does your checklist not count night time mistakes?” Daryl says, rolls his eyes at the same time that he rolls over Rick, sits up and straddles his lap, a thigh on either side of his hipbones and two hands pressed to his stomach for balance. Rick breathing picks up, just minutely, but he forces that to be the only thing that reacts, no matter how much every other part of his body wants to. He’s not insensitive, cares more about Daryl’s steady approach to happiness then he does the continuation of his own, and even then, if the two weren’t connected, he’d know this isn’t the time.

“It used to.” He says, brings a hand up to curl into the hollow of Daryl’s hip, feels the muscle flex and contract beneath the shirt. “Then I remembered that each day is a new one, and new things deserve fresh mind frames.”

“How do you make everything sound so easy when it isn’t?” Daryl asks, frowning as he leans over Rick’s torso so he can look him in the eyes, the ocean sitting above the sky like it enjoys the contradiction.

“Ease is personal.” Rick comments, brings a hand up to rest it against Daryl’s chest, establishing the distance that's been set even if Daryl’s made no move to reduce it. “It varies.”

Daryl shrugs, an awkward movement with his hands firmly placed onto the mattress, as is the indifference of it when he so obviously cares more than he wants to let on. “Nothing’s easy for me.”

“You woke up this morning.” Rick points out, presses a hand to the side of Daryl’s neck and strokes his thumb against his ear. “Did you struggle with that?”

Daryl snorts, tilts his head at an odd angle to look away from Rick and press his head into the touch at the same time. “I don’t exactly have control over it.”

“Nothing we control is easy.” Rick shakes his head, pulls Daryl’s forehead down to his own when he still doesn’t look at him. “Doesn’t disregard the fact that things out of our control can be.”

Daryl just breathes, his exhales drawn in to Rick’s lungs and Rick’s inhaled into his own, the recycled cycle of life. He keeps looking down to Rick’s lips, back up to his eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do with the intimacy of the situation, not when there’s no intention behind any of it, no demand to do anything but enjoy the inhibition. 

“What else is easy to you?” Rick whispers, like it’s inquisition into every secret Daryl's ever kept.

“This.” Daryl says, because right now it’s the easiest thing in the world to fall into Rick Grimes and never want to leave, keep falling until you’re too deep to consider leaving, curl up in a ball and stay there forever so even if he gets tired of you and pushes you to the side you’ll always be with him.

Rick smiles. “What’s easy about it?”

“You’re pretty easy to love.” Daryl says, kisses the thumb Rick strokes over his lip. “And I don’t have control over it.”

Rick doesn’t speak and Daryl takes that as an invitation to block the only way he could, tangles his fingers into the back of Rick’s hair and practically pulls him forward. 

Their kiss isn’t hesitant, not like previous ones, and Daryl doesn’t think he can even force himself to come up for air, not with the way Rick’s hand encircles around his throat, another rising to his cheek and pressing a careful finger into the groove of his jaw, licking into Daryl’s mouth when it falls open. 

He kisses Daryl like a man dying of thirst, who’s finally found the calming, quenching embrace of his ever changing ocean. 

Their tongues don’t fight, their desperation isn’t violent enough for it and Rick’s intent isn’t one of victory but of equality. It’s much more like dancing, movement’s borrowed, copied, mirrored, pace carefully set out and taken because this isn’t about stealing time so much as forgetting it. 

Daryl’s breath hitches, just slightly, the loss of it not nearly as panic inducing as he’s used to, a type of pleasure he’s never been able to experience. It’s a sound he’s shocked at himself, maybe because he never had enough breath in his lungs to make it before. Not when he was in a position like this (but pinned, held, tied) and his nerves twisted themselves into vines, crept into the capillaries of his lungs and drained the air right from them. But Rick’s kissing his jaw, his neck, open mouthed kisses that make Rick pant as much as he does and it’s only when he moves to undo Rick’s shirt that everything comes to an unanticipated end.

“Stop.” Rick says, surprisingly steady for the apparent turbulence distorting his breathing. “Stop.”

Daryl doesn’t question it, isn’t going to be like _them_. Because even though he never said no, never had the courage to say stop, he knew they wouldn’t have. When he thinks about it, that might have been the reason he never tried. It sounds so stupid when he thinks back on it, that he thought he wasn’t raped because he told himself it was consensual.

“Did I do-?” _something wrong, something right?_

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Rick says, puts a hand on either side of Daryl’s face so he can bring it up to his own.

Daryl swallows, licks his bottom lip and pulls it between his teeth, worrying it for a second and letting it drop back from between them again. “Do you not want to?”

“Honestly?” Rick asks, waits for Daryl’s tentative nod. “I’m not gonna lie, I’d love to.”

“Then why-?”

“Because this means more than sex.” Rick interrupts, wanting to explain before Daryl can get the wrong idea, convince himself this is his fault rather than Rick trying to fix all of his own. “It’s commitment.”

Daryl nods, a hand rising to touch the ring of discolored skin on Rick’s finger. “I know that-”

“Commitment takes time.” Rick says, encourages Daryl to shift up onto his knees so he can sit up himself, lean back onto the headboard and pull him back down against his chest.

“We’ve had time-” 

“Not here.” Rick taps his head, something Daryl's getting awfully used to. He thinks it should feel patronizing, but if anything it just feels like an abstract version of Rick’s fingers in his hair, a caress like all the other touches and one that’s done with care. “You’ve been rushing through this a mile a minute since it started and you need to process it.”

“This isn’t the problem.” Daryl says, pushes lightly against Rick’s chest as he does, holds onto the fabric of his shirt with one hand.

“You need to process that too.” Rick says, implies so much in a single word, looks at Daryl like he knows how much he hasn’t been told, that it doesn’t really get better.

“I already did.” Daryl says and maybe so much truth has rusted the silver shine that used to polish all of his lies, because the words taste like rusted metal against his tongue, and Daryl can’t even believe them himself. 

“Saying it happened,” Rick starts, rubs a finger against Daryl’s lips like he knows how horrible the lies taste. “That isn’t the same as realizing you did nothing to make it happen.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Daryl says, but his eyes rest solely on the grey fabric of the bed sheet and the movement he tries to pass off as a shiver doesn’t quite settle enough to be anything other than a shake.

“Can you look me in the eyes and say that?” Rick asks, doesn’t push for the contact anymore than asking for it.

Daryl tries, he really does, lifts his eyes to Rick's and can hold them there until the very moment he opens his mouth. He doesn’t bother to repeat the words, not when it’s so obvious he can’t support the weight of them with something as tentative as eye contact.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, but Daryl covers his face with his hands regardless, isn’t sure whether the burning feeling behind his eyes is anger or more tears, ends up convincing himself if he presses hard enough into them it doesn’t matter either way. Rick wraps a hand around each of his wrists, not trying to remove them so much as making sure the pressure isn’t strong enough to cause pain.

“It’s alright sweetheart.” He says, can’t hear Daryl crying so much as he recognizes the unsteady motion of his diaphragm, more loping than a panic attack, less frantic. “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay.”

Rick can’t calm Daryl down straight away, lets him hide away from what is either his own perception of judgement or his fear of seeing Rick’s own. It’s only after a few minutes, when tears get exhausting enough to draw energy from other muscles, that Rick manages to pull his hands away from his face, use his own to wipe away the majority of the tears and then press gentle kisses on Daryl's cheeks to clear up the ones that continue to fall.

“I’d like you to talk to someone.” He says, when Daryl looks like he's settled enough to get through an answer.

“I’m talking to you.” Daryl says, brings a hand to rest against Rick’s wrist. 

“And I’m so happy you feel like you can.” Rick smiles, and Daryl would think he looked carefree if he wasn’t biting at the inside of his lip. “But I meant a professional.”

“I’m not crazy.” Daryl says, and it has enough substance to sound like a shout, even if the volume rests somewhere shy of a whisper.

“Neither am I.” Rick says, pulls Daryl down into his shoulder when he notices how uncomfortable the eye contact's making him. “Still had therapy.”

Daryl mumbles something against his collarbone, has to repeat it before Rick can answer. “You had a disorder.”

“I didn’t know I did for a long time.” Rick muses, remembers being all of 15 and thinking everyone started suffocating when they walked into a crowded room, thought up reassuring reasons like air pollution and the dispersion of oxygen through a room so full, convinced himself he was overreacting with thorough reasoning and what he considered to be sound logic. “I thought it was just me, just life.”

It had been the most depressing year of Rick’s life, and when Shane dragged him to the Doctors he was resigned, sure they were going to laugh at him and send him on his way with nothing but a new understanding for humiliation and the knowledge that they’d all be talking about him when he left, the kid who couldn’t deal with life before he’d even gotten to the hard part of it.

“When I got help, when I spoke to someone, I realized I didn’t even _know_ who I was.” He says, rests his cheek against the top of Daryl’s head so his hair can catch in his stubble. “Disorders are justified, they are so real. And they change you, they make you feel different and you forget who you were.”

It sounds straightforward, even when Rick knew it hadn’t been, that the first doctor he visited was exactly what he had feared they would be, told him he was overreacting with a smile on his face and a hand holding a metal box of stickers like he thought Rick might want one. It had been one of the worst moments of his life, his age reduced to that of a toddler in a matter of moments and three movements of someone irrelevant. It made him feel immature, childish, stupid.

And even if Shane had to console him in the car all the way to the field and sit with him for an hour while he tried to stop blubbering like a damn baby, no one ever had to know.

He hadn’t gone back until he was sixteen, spurred on by an older Shane and a concerned Lori, patiently telling him that this one was a specialist, that they knew, that they’d understand. It had still taken Rick half an hour to get out of the car, and even when he was ten minutes late for his appointment the women greeted him with a smile, no box of stickers or plastered on empathy, just words and reassurance and a promise of help that Rick hadn’t anticipated needing until he realized the results.

“They don’t just come along, you grow into them.” Rick says, aware that he still can’t remember the first time shortness of breath registered as something worrying. “Growing into a disorder feels an awful lot like growing up.”

It’s hard to diagnose as it is, even more so when people are swarming around you, telling you how much you've grown, noting all the differences, well-meaning but altogether detrimental comments swarming from parental figure to parental figure. The _‘you’ll grow out of it’_ years. The _‘you don’t know what stress is’_ years.  
Rick wishes he could’ve told them all to shut up, because the thought of growing up to be worse than he already was didn’t make anything better. Left him thinking _‘this is you, and it’s all you're ever going to be’_ , made choking on air in a bathroom a more regular occurrence than he ever wanted it to be.

In all honesty, those were the most stressful years of his life, and now he knows how to handle it, he’s pretty sure they’re the most stressed he’s ever going to be.

And all the people that said _‘you’ll grow out of it’_ can piss off, because yes he did, but not through age and not through maturity, but through a lot of hard work, a lot of artificial emotions and a kind enough person to sit there and adopt his problems as if they were their own, give him advice from a perspective that wasn’t blinded by the problem itself.

“You think that it’s just who you are.” Rick says, shrugs his shoulders and kisses Daryl’s head in apology when he jostles him. “You forget that you don’t even know who you are yet.”

The moment of getting off those pills, weaning his way off them and then being able to walk through town, knowing he was coping, feeling like he could breathe and acknowledging that he was doing it himself, was one of the proudest moments of his life. Rick knows, beyond a doubt, that he wants Daryl to feel proud of himself.

“Do you feel like you Daryl?” He asks, remembers a mirrored question in a beige office, just with himself as the intended. 

“I don’t know.” Daryl says, and Rick remembers how heavy that is, the admittance, when you realize that you don’t even know how you’re feeling, or who you’re supposed to be. It drags your words down, makes you not want to talk, and that weight is probably the hardest thing to get past, telling someone everything you’re conscious about and hoping they won’t ridicule your revelation.

Hope is a heavy emotion, and not nearly as freeing as people think.

“Neither did I.” Rick kisses Daryl’s head, rubs a hand down his arm to try and soothe the shake that settles there. “There’s no shame in it Daryl.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” It’s so quiet, and so heartbreakingly uncertain in its conviction that Rick knows it was nothing more than a questioned thought that tried it’s best to form persuasion.

“Of course there isn’t.” Daryl shakes like a leaf and Rick wants to wrap him in blankets and hug him until he stops, even when the shake has nothing to do with temperature. “Just because there’s nothing wrong, doesn’t mean something can’t get better.”

“There’s nothing to-” _fix, be fixed._ Rick can hear the words, and he wonders how someone from such a different background, a life much worse the Rick’s own could ever sound so similar to himself.

“You told me there was a war.” Daryl glances up at him, furrows his brow and Rick rubs his thumb across it to smooth out the lines before he taps against his forehead. “In here.”

Daryl looks like he can barely remember the conversation, a thought spoken so long ago it’s lost to remembrance and doomed to be forgotten, Rick can’t help dragging it back through the dust, because it was as important then as it is now, and Rick remembers the feel of that fight well.

“Wars have lots of battles.” He tilts Daryl’s chin up, kisses along the edge of his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids when they flicker closed at the feeling. “You don’t have to win them all to win the war.”

“Then why do you want me to see a shrink.” Daryl asks, eyes rolling open slowly once Rick moves back, and as much as Rick loves the waves, he wishes the oceans could always look that still.

“You have to win some.” Rick smiles, keeps going until the sight of it encourages one onto Daryl’s own lips. “And you can’t win on your own, not this one.”

“I don’t like hospitals.” Daryl says, hopes Rick will pick up on the admittance he gave last time something similar was mentioned, that he’s poor and he always has been and health had never been important enough to fork that much money over to something they may never use (even when they always needed it, because the inconvenience of questions always outweighed the inconvenience of unconsciousness.)

“I know.” Rick says, and Daryl knew he would because when does Rick Grimes ever let him down, especially in terms of vague subtext only an English teacher would understand. “But I know a lovely psychology teacher with a fully-fledged degree who would love to meet you.”

Daryl thinks of a grey haired women sat on the bench, a smile and a wave sent in his direction, one that didn’t differ from the one she sent to Rick. She’d looked like a nice lady, even from the distance Daryl had stood at, and even though it was probably irrelevant at the time and definitely so now, Daryl had thought she looked like a Mother. All rolled up shirt sleeves and flats, a mug in her hands that had looked far too rustic to be shop bought, far to misshapen to fit to anything but the studious grip of a struggling child.

Daryl can vaguely remember making one of them for his Mom, when he’d been young enough to fall into the wonder of Mother’s Day, allow the teachers to convince him that his Mom would love a gift, would know how hard he tried.

She never did break it in front of him, but she never used it either, and even though he hadn’t wanted to check for fear of being right, he’s pretty sure the shattered remnants of china along the edge of the lawn would’ve had misshapen, wrongly colored animals dotted all over them.

“Does that sound okay?” Rick asks, lets Daryl’s head drop back down to his collarbone and rest there.

Daryl hasn’t had a lot of good experience with Mothers, knows that blood doesn’t always ensure a loving relationship, shared genes don’t always equal shared beliefs and the pain of giving birth to something his Mother never even wanted lingered much longer than the fractional joy of a new-born ever could.

He nods against Rick’s shoulder anyway, smiles at the touch of lips again this temple even if he isn’t sure the decision was a good one. There’s a part of him that expects hurt, that’s loud enough to shout above the majority, the large, rapidly growing section that would do anything Rick asks because trust is a funny thing that just keeps on growing when it gets the chance to. This shouts over it, dulls the message, makes him almost resigned to the disappointment he’s sure he’ll be reacquainted with soon.

Still, _she_ kept her mug, and that has to count for something.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support on this story! Every single kudos, comment and bookmark means the world! Even knowing that people are still reading this is amazing! :)
> 
> I've decided to add an epilogue to this, that's why I've added an extra chapter! I realized there was a lot I still wanted to slot in! :)
> 
> *Hands over chapter tentatively* - I have no idea whether any of you will like this one. I swear the next chapter's actually the fluffiest one yet so please don't hate me!
> 
> WARNING (which is also a bit of a spoiler) - For the aftermath of a suicide (the body not the actual event) and gore (by that I mean a description of blood.) Please don't assume the worst either! It'll all be okay, remember that!

Unsurprisingly, the mid-morning thoughts of his Mother lead to a mind frame centered on Merle.

Merle’s been a poor topic of conversation for a long time, and thinking about him brings about as much happiness as the questions do.

There had been something so resigned to every angle of Merle’s face, every tone in his voice, the deep seated resignation of perpetual failure that follows Dixons like a plague. Daryl once though it was inevitable, that they just weren’t born with the potential to be anything but what those before them happened to be, now he realizes that potential is a choice, that everyone has it and very few utilize it. 

It’s difficult to realize you have that potential, especially when everyone and everything around you attests to the opposite.

Daryl knows Merle went through more than he did, that the addition of a baby probably wasn’t the most appreciated insertion to whatever coping mechanism Merle had going at the time. He also knows that Merle had Mom, who couldn’t be classed as supporting in any right, but was very good as sitting still, glassy eyed and listening to whatever it was you had to say. She’d also never speak of it again, because you know she hadn’t really heard a word of it in the first place.

As bad as it sounds, she was also good at taking half the hits.

Dad got violent once Merle left, even more so when Mom died.

It was a bad period of time, the same one housing the snare, the dog, a couple of broken bones that Daryl can’t be sure ever set right. Dad was violent, for a while, not just hurtful, not learned lessons and bitter scowls, but violent. It was sadistic, causing pain for the sake of doing so and with Merle away and Mom gone Daryl took every single hit. He’s surprised he didn’t die, whether by Dad’s hand or his own he can’t be sure, but each morning came with the expectation of death and each night greeted him with the bitter surprise of breathing.

When Bill pulled his shotgun off the wall and blew a hole in his head, Daryl expected the worst. Dad has already pulled his belt off and tied Daryl’s hand to the pipe on the wall just as the phone went off. That was a surprise in itself, and Daryl had tensed the muscles he was trying so hard to relax and damn near broken his nose on the wall when he flinched into it. 

They must have told Dad then, because even though he was quiet and Daryl couldn’t see his face, the sound of heavily held back tears had been part of Daryl’s daily soundtrack for a long, long time. 

The fear of anger resulting from that sadness was legendary, and Daryl was sure he was going to be beaten within an inch of his life as soon as Dad pulled himself together. The steady sound of Dad’s boots had rung in his ears like a clock, counting down the seconds, the heavy breathing inter spacing each step only adding to the noise. The relief of silence was thought to be short lived, up until the very second that Dad reached up, unclipped the belt from Daryl’s arm and collapsed back onto the couch. 

“Get out Daryl.” He’d said, phone hanging loosely in his grip and eyes as downcast as Daryl’s ever seen on a man so proud.

Daryl knew better than to make him repeat himself, grabbed his shirt off the table and stayed in the woods for the night. The house was a mess when he got back, ripped up, tipped over and trashed. Dad was the calm in the storm, sat atop an overturned table with a beer and a cigarette.

He still hit Daryl, still beat him with the belt when he fucked something up enough to deserve it, but he never got violent again.

Just stayed angry, angry and bitter.

And if sometimes, very rarely, on the odd occasion where the alcohol was strong enough and the quantity large enough to get Dad so drunk he slipped from pissed to a point where he couldn’t even remember why he was holding the belt, when he’d look up at Daryl and start calling him ‘Bill’, it didn't matter, because no one had to know.

Merle dealt with it longer, but it was sustained, it was constant, it was easy to avoid. He never saw the mood swings, the meltdowns, never looked down at Dad and felt the overwhelming feeling of pity mesh together with the swirling mass of resentment, never had to experience the way feeling so conflicted towards someone so dead set on hurting you makes you hate yourself.

Despite the time, it always seems like Daryl got hit the hardest, that with the lump weight of sexual proposition after sexual proposition added on top, he was the one struggling to stay afloat. 

Neither of them ever liked Dad, neither of them liked Mom, liked the trailer. Daryl never met Bill, but if he’d have been as much of a carbon copy of himself as Merle sometimes seemed of Dad, Daryl doesn’t think he would’ve liked him either.

A lot of the time, Daryl thinks Merle might've even preferred prison to being at home.

It makes sense once he attests to it, when he realizes how much Merle wanted to leave, get away and not be able to crawl back. That was always the fear in leaving, that which kept their feet firmly planted and their hopes taped down and unable to soar, the terrible worry that if they left nothing would get better, everything would be the same and they’d come crawling back like they never left, have to sit by Dad with the same bitter acceptance and stare at a gun they’ll never want to consider using but always long to touch.

That, and the fact that as much as Merle wanted to be lost, he didn’t want to lose the possibility of coming back, being found, like crawling away from home and crawling straight back again. There’s no chance of getting lost behind steel bars and concrete. In rooms with little enough light to always be the right kind of dark. 

Daryl’s curled up against Rick on the couch, and while he knows Rick’s house is never dark, the remembrance of Merle makes everything seem bleak.

He wants absolution, would love for Merle to realize his own potential just as Daryl had and move on, maybe meet up later down the line and just _live_. Somehow he doesn’t think that's a realistic expectation, doesn’t think he has enough faith to put something as heavy as expectation towards anything Merle does, it’s not fair on him, and it’s certainly not fair on Merle.

But Merle’s his brother, his blood, and there’s something about sitting next to the man who taught him about family that makes him melancholy towards the whole thing.

“I need to go somewhere.” Daryl says, can feel Rick’s eyes shift to him even if he can’t see them move.

“Okay.” Rick says, draws the middle of the word out, but doesn’t quite leave enough inflection hanging for it to be a question. “Is ‘somewhere’ a place I can go too?”

“You could.” Daryl says, shifts back to look at Rick. “But I don’t want you to.”

Rick nods, knowing enough about Daryl to realize that what could be perceived as harsh words weren’t meant to hurt. “Why do you want to go?”

“I need to sort something.” Daryl sighs, rubs the sleeve of the shirt Rick had given him over his eyes, briefly fighting against a yawn before giving into it anyway. It’s worth it when he sees the smile stretch over Rick’s face. “If everything goes right, maybe even settle something.”

“And if everything goes wrong?” Rick asks, tightens the arm around Daryl’s shoulders until he leans back into him.

“He won’t hurt me.”

“Your brother?” Daryl glances up at him, brow furrowed, because when in all of this did he let Rick see so much of him he couldn’t keep anything hidden. “You want to see your brother?”

Daryl nods, brings the sleeve up to his mouth and starts biting at a loose thread, knowing Rick would prefer it if he chewed all of his shirts to shreds, than pulled at any single one of the hangnails on his fingers. Daryl had tried to tell him that it didn’t hurt, convince him that 17 years of chewing on his fingers had pretty much killed the top layer of nerves. Rick didn’t listen, even though he heard every word, the sight of Daryl doing anything that had any possibility of hurting himself made Rick flinch like their nerves were knotted together, like Daryl’s deadened ones could still send flickers of feeling to Rick’s.

“You were hurt last time.” Rick says, keeps a careful eye on the skin just sliding against Daryl’s teeth, waits for the moment he forgets himself and teeth start to maw on flesh rather than fabric. 

Daryl’s brow furrows again, only just having relaxed from the first one. “No I wasn’t.” 

“Yes you were.”

“We’re really gonna go on about feelings again?” Daryl sighs, pulls the sleeve away from his mouth to frown at Rick. “I told you I’d speak to that woman!”

“Feelings are important Daryl.” Rick says, looking at him with nothing more than content kindness and the slightest hint of fond exasperation.

“So’s my brother.” Daryl argues, a hint of some unrecognized emotion that Rick doesn’t want to disagree with.

“And I’m not saying you can’t see him, I have no right to.” He holds up a hand, either to placate Daryl or to stop him carrying on with the argument regardless of what Rick has to say. “I just want you to think of yourself first.”

“I will. I _am_.” Daryl says, bites his lip and looks down to the side of the couch. “I need to go for me.”

“Why?” Not sure whether he’s asking as a follow up to Daryl’s admittance or about why it was so hard for him to admit it in the first place.

Daryl leans back slightly into the couch, pulls his leg up towards him and props the other up against Rick’s lap. “It’s all so-” 

“Unresolved?”

“Yeah.”

Rick doesn’t want him to go, and although it sounds like a selfish statement his reasoning for it is selfless. He doesn’t want Daryl to be hurt, especially not the kind he doesn’t even realize, the type that blends into life so much you hardly realize you’re in pain. He doesn’t want Daryl to rebound back to secrecy, to hiding, close all the doors Rick’s tried so hard to open and lock them shut with all the mental padlocks Rick knows he still has.

But he can understand why Daryl needs to go, knows how difficult it is to keep moving forward when issues are tethering you to the past. It’s like fighting against rope, one around your throat, one around your heart and another tying your legs together and tripping you up every time you take a step.

He wants Daryl to be happy, to be healthy, and sometimes seeing such unhealthy influences are the best way to get that.

“Can I go with you?” He asks, specifically asks because he doesn’t want to force anything on Daryl. Merle’s obviously a sore subject, and Rick only wants to soothe that as best he can, not advocate allegiances but at least promote conversation.

“Rick-” Daryl starts, can’t even finish his sentence, not when the glance Rick gives him looks like a human embodiment of Lacy, and Daryl knows all too well what horrible noises dogs can make when they’re in pain.

“Please?” Rick asks, scoots forward slightly so he can intercept the path Daryl’s thumb makes to his mouth before it can get there. “I’ll stay in the car, I’ll stay down the road.”

It sounds like he’s asking such simple things, giving such sound reasoning, even when Rick knows he’s asking one of the hardest things of Daryl. He’s been kept separate from family, and Daryl so rarely talks about them. Something in that tells Rick all he’ll ever need to know about what type of family Daryl has, can back it up with blood and bruises and come back with an answered equation that may not be completely right, but works along guidelines that will help Rick when he’s given the correct facts.

“It’s not you Daryl, it’s not that I don’t trust you or that I think you can’t deal with this on your own.” Rick says, voice like feathers, like clouds, like the blowing of the breeze in a dandelion field and Daryl loves him, he really, really does. “But I can’t deal with the stress of waiting, not again.”

Daryl blinks, not sure why his eyes fill with water after such a gentle breeze swept them free of pain. There’s something about every aspect of Rick that’s so soft, so tentative, and Daryl, who can withstand ten tonne weights and violence and heavy hands, cannot ignore the pull of kindness, the irresistible feeling of being loved. 

“You’ve only just started healing.” Rick says, lifts a hand to Daryl’s cheek, curls his fingers under his chin and nudges his head up, doesn’t ridicule the very thing that makes the ocean shimmer. “That’s when you’re most breakable.”

“I’m not glass.” _Not anymore._

“No, you’re not.” Rick says, smiles at him like he always does, like it’s a privilege to look at Daryl and an answered prayer that he’s able to touch. “But humans are a little harder to fix than figurines.”

Daryl bites his lip, and Rick can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to it. “You’ll wait outside?"

“Of course I will.”

Daryl’s lip slides out from under his teeth and Rick couldn’t resist the urge to pull it in-between his own even if he was a much stronger man than whatever Daryl’s molded him into. He curls a hand around Daryl’s neck, keeps the other resting against his cheek, little finger just able to brush against the edges of Daryl’s bangs. 

It’s Daryl who licks his way into Rick’s mouth, but Rick who ultimately chases him back, practically leaning Daryl down over the couch in his quest to get closer. He’d think to back off, does think that he might be going too far in pushing Daryl down, but he just tangles a hand into Rick’s shirt, pushing down into the grip Rick has on his neck and up into the hollow of Rick’s hips, arching his back up until Rick can’t help trailing a sure hand down to trace along his spine.

“Ew, ew, ew.” Rick breaks away as Daryl does, looks over to the arched walkway to see Carl standing there, face practically shoved into Lacy’s fur. Lacy herself isn’t even wagging her tail, and the tilt of her head makes Rick feel like he’s being chastised. “I said I wanted you happy, not kissing!”

“One in the same, Baby Goat.” Daryl drawls, when it looks like Rick isn’t going to say anything. Rick goes to pull away, but Daryl can’t resist dragging him back, dropping just one more chaste little kiss against his lips like he’s leaving Rick a parting gift, something to tide him over till the next time.

“Stop!” Carl whines, Lacy echoing the sound with one of her off key howls, covering his face again when Daryl smirks at him. “Daryl!” 

It’s Sunday afternoon by the time they get a chance to visit Merle, dropping Carl and Lacy off at Lori’s before heading down one of the forest roads Daryl told Rick to take.

Daryl’s practically shaking in his seat, and if his lips weren’t being torn to bloody shreds beneath his teeth Rick might’ve mistaken the anxiety for excitement. He doesn’t say anything, tries his best to focus on driving and remind himself that Daryl knows what he’s doing, that Daryl needs this as much as he wants it and aren’t those the two things Rick always said he was going to aim for?

Eventually, they pull up at one of the trailer parks scattered around Georgia, Daryl telling him to pull up at the edge of it so he can hop out. Rick keeps creeping forward as long as he can, right up until the moment Daryl’s exasperation turns to annoyance, even then he keeps the engine running, watches Daryl silhouette in the headlights until the illumination ends and the darkness envelops him. There’s something poetic in that, but Rick doesn’t think too far into it, knows he probably wouldn’t like the analysis.

Rick doesn’t know how long he’s expecting to wait there, but Daryl comes walking back up to him no more than 5 minutes later, shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlights until Rick has the sense to dim them. He doesn’t step into the car straight away, scans the horizon, but when he does the lip he was tearing to sheds is properly bleeding and despite his assurances Rick’s handing him a tissue before he even considers asking what happened.

“He wasn’t there.” Daryl says, when Rick finally works up to asking the question rather than thinking it. “Pete said he hasn’t seen him in at least 3 days.”

“What do you want to do?” Rick asks, holds the tissue against the base of Daryl’s lip when Daryl doesn’t take it himself.

“I don’t know.” Daryl glances out into the forest, grabs onto the tissue only when he notices the strain he’s putting on Rick’s wrist. “Pete ain’t exactly reliable, depending on how much moonshine he’s had, 3 days could be anywhere from an hour to a week.”

He stares into the dark for a long time, just stares at nothing, glances slightly to the side as if there is something there, as if he could see it moving. He looks away soon enough, doesn’t look particularly bothered by it, and Rick supposes it must’ve been irrelevant, either that or a relevance so small he has no hope of understanding it.

“Can we try one more place?” Daryl asks, drops the tissue down onto the seat beside him after scrunching it into a careful ball.

Rick pulls out of the park as soon as he asks, comes to rest at the junction outside of it before he looks back to Daryl. “Where to?”

“Just the other side of town.” Daryl says, waving to the left until Rick turns that way, still staring out of the window like he can see color when all Rick sees is black.

“Where are we going Daryl?” Rick asks, isn’t surprised when Daryl doesn’t turn to face him.

Daryl shrugs, but the motion seems heavy with a specific extent of weight Rick hasn’t seen him carry in a while. “Just another trailer.”

“You sure it’s just another trailer?”

“It didn’t used to be.” Daryl says, and Rick wishes he could see the look on his face in a more solidified way than vague outline of features cast in the reflection of the glass. “It is now.”

When they do pull up to the trailer, Rick notices Daryl’s bike in the driveway, next to a battered pickup truck that looks a murky brown in the darkness but must actually be a beat up red. Daryl’s looking at them too, and it takes him a little while to get out of the car, shaking his head at Rick when he makes to get out as well. Rick watches him leave, the same fade to black of his silhouette, hopes Daryl comes back just as quickly as he had the first time.

Daryl himself takes his time, half expecting the sounds of a brawl to creep through the shitty mesh of the front door, perhaps a replay of 10 years ago when Daryl sat huddled in a corner and watched Dad chuck Merle into it, not able to hug his brother one last time before he left, and not stupid enough to call out a goodbye in front of two people who couldn’t stand finality.

It’s a slow walk up to the door, and the silence of it all is worse than any brawled soundtrack ever could be.

It takes Daryl a few deep breaths, and the accumulation of all the shards of courage he has left, to push open the door. When he finally does, it steals the deep breath from him and leaves his lungs gasping for rotten air to replace the fresh he so carelessly threw away. 

He has to cough, but he can’t quite look away, even such violent expulsions not enough to make his eyes blink, not enough to will them to distort a picture that’s already so distorted. 

There’s blood up the wall, which isn’t uncommon in the Dixon house and maybe that’s why Daryl doesn’t feel panicked, doesn’t feel anything past the type of shock that lodges itself into his bones and freezes his limbs, stops his lungs from overworking themselves when he can’t even be sure they’re working in the first place. The blood’s thick, congealed, sprayed against the back of the couch and the back wall like paint, like abstract art.

It reaches all the way up to the water pipe, and there’s something about seeing blood on it that makes Daryl disgustingly pleased.

The glass cabinet’s splattered with it, and that only adds to the feeling.

There’s nothing pretty about it, especially not when he can finally convince his eyes to blink, shift them beneath closed eyelids so he has no choice but to look directly at the mangled concave hole of Dad’s skull. The shotgun’s fallen to the floor at his feet, blood dripping down the barrel right in-between the engraved letters. A cursive ‘BD’ that made the gun look less shitty than it actually is.

Daryl can’t say he’s sad, can’t say he feels much more than an out of bodied sense of pity and some bitter sense of justification. He thinks he would’ve been heartbroken, if he hadn’t met Rick, not because Will Dixon ever had the importance to break Daryl’s heart, but because this would mean a lot more than it does now. It would be like looking into the future, some distorted reality where Dad’s echoed whispers of ‘Bill’ while looking directly into Daryl’s face would have been much more symbolic than it ever turned out to be, that Merle would be sat here now, with a bloody gun engraved with ‘DD’ and whatever child he’d beaten indifference into not even able to sob at the cloying feeling of loneliness that's more akin to losing a burden than a parent.

Something shifts in the corner, and it’s only when Daryl spins round in the tattered room and locks eyes on Merle that he questions the conclusion he jumped to so easily.

“Please tell me you didn’t.” He says, takes in the way Merle’s sat on an upturned table, in a trashed room, with a bottle of some shitty whisky and a cigarette burning through the filter to his fingertips.

“He was like this when I got here.” Merle says, puts the cigarette out against the wood.

“How long _have_ you been here?” Daryl asks, takes a hesitant step forward.

“T’was light.” Merle hums, looks towards the window like he didn’t realize it was dark, but is glad to see that it is. “Was looking for you.”

“You found me.” Daryl says, kneels down slightly opposite Merle, tries to catch eyes that studiously avoid looking at him, flick back to Dad more times than they ever cross over his own.

“Guess I did.” Merle glances at him ever so briefly, but his eyes look straight though him and Daryl can look straight through Merle, like neither of them are even there. “Your crossbow’s by the door.”

Daryl glances back, skims over bloody walls and settles on the multi-colored fletching attached to his arrows. “What are you still doing here Merle?”

“You said it yourself.” Daryl looks back to Merle, notices that the bottle he’s drinking out of is broken, cutting into his lips and trickling beer down his chin. It looks like it burns, Merle also looks like he’s reveling in it. “Wind this forward a few years and that’s me.”

“I ain’t Bill.” Daryl says, looking at Merle so closely, trying to find any hint, anything at all of the brother he once knew, the one that walked with him through the forest, put up with the sunshine because it made Daryl happy, took a beating for him because in some twisted way he thought it made up for all the times he hurt Daryl himself. “You don’t have to be Dad.”

“Baby brother, you really think we both get a free pass away from this shit.” Merle has to pause after it, looks to a point above Daryl’s head and focuses there. “Legacy’s don’t work like that.” 

“This ain’t a legacy Merle!” Daryl hisses, tries to knock the bottle from Merle’s hand as he goes to take another drink. His grip's surprisingly sturdy, and he smirks at him over the jagged edges with lips that are just as torn. “We get to walk away from this!”

Merle doesn’t shift, doesn’t acknowledge Daryl’s temper in any way other than his smirk, and Daryl starts to think it was the closest thing to happiness he’s ever going to see on Merle’s face again, the strange joy in seeing that Daryl’s still got enough fire in him to shout.

“You know I always hated this trailer.” Merle drawls, swings the bottle around like he’s showcasing it. “Good a place to stay as any.”

Daryl doesn’t even know what to say, doesn’t know if there’s anything he _can_ say. He feels like he missed an opportunity, that somewhere, in a long, long line of dysfunction Merle was still going steady enough to save. As it is now, Daryl can practically see the cracks, and he can’t be sure Merle’s clinging to the edged balance he always used to, thinks it’s a lot more likely he’s tumbled off the edge with no one around to help him fall.

“You’re the one that got away little brother.” 

Merle smiles, just a little bit, but it’s shuttered behind a bottle and fades back into a frown somewhere between happiness and broken glass.

“Get out Daryl.”

And Daryl, like all those years ago, knows better than to make a Dixon repeat themselves.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the wonderful support on this! I wouldn't have been able to keep up these updates if it wasn't for all of you! :)
> 
> The promised fluff is here! And when it does get fluffy it's also probably the most romantic thing I've ever written (with some deep conversation because what else would there be?) I hope everyone likes that! I'm no romance exert and some of it might seem bad, but I tried!
> 
> I am aware that Dandelions are weeds, but I took some liberties and called them flowers (they're pretty anyway). :)

Rick’s waiting in the car for a length of time that’s both longer and shorter than he was expecting.

It’s that funny incremental feeling, where you’re uncertain as to whether a situation is getting better or worse along with the passing of time, where too little time has passed for anything to have gone right and not enough for anything to have gone wrong. It works on the flip-side as well, and the uncertainty of the whole situation with what little he has to gauge it makes Rick worry.

He doesn’t want to go in there, not when it’s so obvious Daryl doesn’t want him to see anymore than he already has. He thinks that there must be something in that, some vague horror Daryl’s trying to shield him from when all Rick wants is to learn it, to know what happened so he can ensure Daryl never has to experience it again.

The whole place looks like a haunted house, near derelict in its atmosphere and partially dilapidated in its construction. The headlights shine light through the trees, leaving patches of shade that distort the house even further. Rick can’t decide whether the parts the light hit are better than those shrouded in shadow, he realizes that there’s probably a lot more hidden within that which he cannot see than he realizes, and decides the whole thing, the whole situation, would be better off left to the dark. 

It’s quiet, the deceptive silence your brain fools you with when it thinks sound is insignificant, hands control over to other, more restricted senses for nothing but the fun of fear.  
Rick can make out the sound of rustling leaves, the steady crash of what he assumes must be a porch door swinging into a badly fitted frame, and even though neither of those sounds are any particular cause for alarm he can’t help but feel uneasy. He’s drawn to thoughts of paranormal paranoia, above all else. 

Rick doesn’t believe in it, but the obnoxious, steadily evolving feel of invasion seems a lot like being watched.

He can’t help but wonder what ghosts haunt this place, whether their mentality was once physicality and the horrors they inflict in death are reflections of their living actions. 

Something in him hopes the haunted feel to this place is recent, that ghosts haven’t always permeated through broken windows and cracked walls and haunted all who stayed inside. It seems like a horrible way to grow up, and even though Rick knows Daryl’s childhood was terrible, the cloying feel of death so harshly cast out from any other hints of civilization seems like such a lonely, hopeless existence. 

It’s such a contrast to the way Rick grew up, what was once shining windows laying scattered on the ground, arched entrances and high walls crumbled to nothing but debris and entrapment, smooth driveway broken into pieces by stray roots.Even the pure atmospheric feel to Rick's house, the living, breathing happiness that chased children through bright rooms and embraced them before warm fires is chased away by the permeating feel of death, burnt out by the tacky feel of mortal immortality.

Rick wants to walk into the house, into such prison like entrapment and pull Daryl away from it, make sure the hold it has on him loosens enough to never catch a firm grip again, never be able to tug him away from Rick’s grasp and back into everything that made him hate touch in the first place. 

He wants to take Daryl to see his Mom, his Dad, his family home, have them shower him in affection and love like he knows they would. Show him what a home should look like, not to hurt him or showcase everything he never had, but to show him what established family looks like, convince him to keep trying by showing him the positive outcome when all he’s ever known is the deconstructed version of home, a house that never quite adapted to family and was to them what it should have been.

Mostly because he thinks Daryl deserves to experience dreams after living through so many nightmares.

By the time Daryl stumbles into view of the headlights, Rick’s halfway out of the car. When Daryl steps into the passenger seat and Rick sees the look on his face he goes to leave the car again, because he couldn’t hug Daryl properly around the center console and Rick had the profuse urge to do absolutely anything he could to alleviate the heavy remorse on Daryl’s face, starting with hugs and ending with the moon if that’s what it would take.

Daryl grabs a hold of his sleeve as soon as he opens the driver’s door, shaking his head when he looks to him.

“Snares.” He says, and something in Rick hopes the one word answer isn’t a devolution into secrecy and silence.

It also catches his attention that Daryl just walked through the dark, even with the threat of these supposed snares, but didn’t want Rick to walk around a well-lit car in case he got hurt. He’s not entirely sure that type of disregard towards one’s self is healthy, but the care shown towards his own would make him smile if Daryl didn't look so sad.

“Are you okay?” He asks, because at the moment ‘what happened’ seems even more dangerous than the traps Daryl warned him about. 

“No.” It’s the type of blatant honesty Rick always appreciates from Daryl, but something about hearing it, minus the usual rambled half-truths that normally precede any such admission makes the whole situation seem even worse than Rick thought it was.

“What can I do to make you okay?” Rick rests a hand on the steering wheel, doesn’t even think about actually driving away yet.

Daryl shrugs, and he’s looking out into shadows cast upon shadows, darkness invading itself like it wants to hide from the light Rick casts onto it and he wouldn’t take so much notice of it if Daryl didn’t look a little like he wanted to merge with it and never step into the light of day again.

“I don’t know.” Daryl says, has to pull his own eyes away from the forest and look towards Rick, hoping someone who shines brighter than any lighthouse could save him form the unavoidable crash, maybe turn into one of the sirens Daryl used to see in the river, drag him away from the shipwreck and down, down, down where no light can touch him except Rick’s own.

Rick can see the tears that want to form, even if Daryl’s eyes remain resolutely dry. That’s the difficult pain, the one where you want to let it all out but you hurt too much to try. He leans over, gathers Daryl into his shoulder as best he can, shifts his head towards his neck and holds him there, center console be damned.

“Can we go to the field?” Daryl asks, so softly, enjoying the feel of Rick’s hand in his hair more than the sticks and stones the ever present call of the forest has promised. 

“It’s the middle of the night.” Rick says, just as softly, but his voice lacks any infliction and Daryl thinks he realizes just how much Rick would give him, that ‘how much’ might not really have a limit. “It’s also a Sunday.”

“Can we go anyway?” He pulls back, looks up at Rick because it doesn’t hurt, not like everything else in this life ever did.

“Yes.” 

Rick smiles over at Daryl, has a brief, internal struggle with letting go of his hair, before turning the car round and driving back the way they came.

Daryl doesn’t take his eyes off of the rear windscreen, watching the darkness even when Rick knows he can see nothing back there. Maybe that’s the problem, maybe it seems a little too much like his entire life just disappeared into a place he’d decided not to visit, that everyone he used to think he loved ignored the trespass signs, the danger signs, and Daryl’s the only one who realizes how important it is to recognize the warnings. 

He doesn’t know what happened, but Daryl’s got the kind of glassy eyed, subtly shaking look to him that reads a lot like shock, and Rick knows it must be something terribly staggering to throw off the balance Daryl’s barely thought about maintaining for such a long time.

He doesn’t know what happened, but like hell he’s going to let Daryl deal with the fallout on his own.

Rick nudges his hand underneath the one Daryl has placed on the seat, links it with his and moves it to his lips, keeping his eyes studiously on the road as he trails kisses over tense knuckles. Daryl turns around, and it could be the distance between them and the past that draws him away, or it could be Rick’s hand on his own. Either way he doesn’t look back.

The moon’s bright when they get to the park, and the reflection of its light is the only reason Rick can park, the only way he can see where he’s moving enough to get Daryl out of the car and through the corresponding gates to the field. Daryl spends a long time in the first one, before the kissing gate, looking out to the vague silhouette of livestock and letting out a breath Rick can’t begin to understand when they fail to move.

The shake is more established when he settles Daryl into the grass, right beneath the tree they always sit at, and he doesn’t think twice about taking off his own jacket and laying it over Daryl’s shoulders. It says something about how he’s feeling that he doesn’t even begin to protest, or maybe he’s finally realized that Rick does everything for a reason, and most commonly it’s just that he wants to help.

They don’t speak for a while, but when Rick sits down beside Daryl his head falls straight onto his shoulder, and when Rick’s wraps around him he grasps the hand over his lap with his own and holds on tight. A kiss to the temple is exchanged with a kiss to the collarbone, and it can’t feel like a debt laid out and paid when both held so much affection.

“My Dad shot himself in the head.”

It shakes, and there’s a part of Daryl that hates himself for it, hates the way his eyes blur with tears. He shouldn’t feel sadness, not for someone who already caused him so much of it, but the ache in his throat tries to clear itself with a whine and something about the drawn out expression of emotion amplifies that which he never wanted to feel. 

“It’s okay to cry.” Rick says, just as Daryl raises their joined hands to angrily wipe the tears away.

“No it isn’t.” He says, and the continuation of the ache does little more than fuel the whine in his voice. “You don’t know what he did.”

“I have an idea.” Rick admits, and Daryl doesn’t even hate that his 'idea' is probably completely right, because at least Rick’s expectation is about as low as it could be as a result. “You feeling something for someone, especially someone who hurt you, that’s normal.”

“How is this-?” Daryl can’t even finished the sentence, holds the back of Rick’s hand against his eyes, wondering if it feels better this way because his own skin is just too saturated with tears to hold onto any more. He’s not entirely sure whether this situation links more to Merle or Dad and another pitiful sound forces its way out from his lips when he realizes there isn’t much difference, that they’re pretty much one in the same.

“You can’t feel relief without distress.” Rick says, leans down to brush Daryl’s tear dampened bangs out of his eyes and move their joined hands away from them. “Sometimes the accumulation of those feelings end up being very similar.”

“I’m crying because I’m relieved?” Daryl asks, and where once anger would tinge the words Daryl finds himself unable to throw anything at Rick but bitter, battered affection. “I’m relieved that my Dad shot himself in the head?”

“Your Dad caused you distress, his death is his last infliction of it.” Rick leans forward, catches a tear drop with his lips, and Daryl would cry for ever, despite the humiliation of it, if only Rick would lap up every tear. “Your distress was blank, but relief is amplifying your emotions and that’s normal.”

Daryl thinks back to the car, the way he’d felt so numb, all the times he’d felt so numb. Like when Dad got the call saying uncle Bill was dead, or when Merle got chucked in prison the first three times, back when Daryl still didn’t know enough about life to expect solitude and accept pain as a price of affection. He doesn't really know much now either, not when it's taken him so long to know that affection’s as free as the birds that sing songs through Rick’s window in the morning, that all Daryl had to do was accept it to fly as high as they do, soar above the ground and know he can get back to it, know he doesn’t have to fear falling with so many people around to catch him.

“It’s okay to cry.” Rick repeats, even though the breeze has stripped the momentary emotional out-pour from Daryl’s eyes. Daryl wonders if he’s anticipating more, or if he just said it to make sure Daryl doesn’t think he did something wrong.

Daryl picks a dandelion, lifts it to the light of the moon, noticing that the yellow flower has bloomed into a dome of seeds. It’s still so beautiful, and Daryl wishes the cycle he was born into could be so eternally sustainable, that tens of others could thrive off of his continued survival.

Rick leans forward, blows against the seeds and watches them float away on the wind. One lodges itself into Daryl’s hair and it’s such a natural movement for Rick to shift forward and untangle it, hold it up to the breeze and let it float away with all the rest.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to do that.” Daryl says, looking back towards Rick from where he had watched them float away.

Rick shrugs, leans back onto his arms and stretches his legs out in front of him. “They were ready to go.” 

“How do you know?” Daryl asks, watches Rick run a gentle hand over some other Dandelions, checking the give of each one.

“They left easily.” He says, and Daryl would have missed his smile if the breeze didn’t shift the tree’s branches ever so slightly and alleviate the shade covering it. “The wind was happy to take them.”

“You know a damn lot about dandelions.” Daryl says, shifts forward and lies down in Rick’s lap, rests his head against his thighs and closes his eyes against the breeze on his face. Rick looks down at him with a smile, one that Daryl can’t see so much as feel.

“I know a lot about Dixons.” Rick says, and it sounds like a correction even though it’s so irrelevant.

Daryl cracks open one eye, glances up at Rick just as Rick glances down to look at him.

“You’ve only met one.” Daryl shifts slightly against Rick’s legs, looks to the branches above him and for once, doesn’t see death in the darkness they’re cast in.

Rick smiles, lifts his hand from the dandelions to stroke through Daryl’s hair, caressing the strands as he had the seeds. “The only one I needed to meet.” 

“You comparing me to a flower?” Daryl asks, the glare he shoots Rick’s way overpowered by the smirk that settle onto his lips.

“You remind me of them.” Rick says, takes his hand away from Daryl’s hair and starts picking a few dandelions that haven’t yet turned from their original yellow color. Daryl watches him set them up in a row, carefully ease a nail through the stem and begin looping them together.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Daryl says, surprisingly unsurprised that Rick’s making a dandelion version of a daisy chain.

“No.” Rick smiles, glances up from his project to meet Daryl’s eyes, slotting a new dandelion into the loop for every comparison. “You’re versatile, resistant, strong.”

Rick picks a few more, completes a line of them, lopping the last one through the first to make a crown. Daryl looks up at him oddly when he hold it aloft, sits up as Rick encourages him to and can’t quite manage to glower over his smile when Rick places the crown onto his head. He smiles, and Daryl finally feels like the King he always knew Rick to be, finally feels equal.

“And you only needed a little push, to travel such a long way.”

Daryl places a hand onto his crown, holds it against his forehead as he leans back onto Rick’s thighs, tries to arrange the flowers so none of them get crushed. The weight holds the band in place nicely, and Daryl wishes dandelions didn’t fall prey to mortality like everything else, if only so he could keep it on forever.

“Do you think suicide runs in the family?” Daryl asks, looking up towards the curve of Rick’s jaw.

“I think despair is easily adopted.” The motion of it as he talks is hypnotic, and Daryl wants to bite along it until he can kiss the lips that speak such reassuring words. “Despair too often leads to depression, depression to death.”

Daryl doesn’t ask anything further, doesn’t feel like it’s necessary. The stinging weight of Merle’s actions hurts as badly as they always have, and Daryl doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for letting someone he loves fall that far away from him. But Daryl wasn’t the one pushing away, wasn’t the one who always wanted to hide. When he thinks back on it, Merle never let Daryl find him anyway.

“I think I want to have sex with you.” He says, such a startling change in direction that he surprised himself with it. Rick looks down at him, and the fact that he doesn’t look shocked, doesn’t look offended, or disgusted or anything Daryl still feared wipes the threat of those worries from his mind, solidifies his resolve even more.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.” Daryl says, the words flowing from his mouth like water, and tasting sweeter than tears ever could. “And it feels right.” 

“I love you too.” Rick replies, meets Daryl's eyes as he does, and even with Daryl’s tentative understanding of emotions, Rick’s read clear to him when they shine so damn brightly.

“Is that a yes?” Daryl asks, smiling as he leans into the fingers Rick re-threads through his hair, careful to avoid jostling the crown. His hand catches slightly, and a mumbled 'sorry' flows from his lips like apologies are reflex reactions to causing pain. It’s something Daryl never experienced before he knew him, but it’s so natural he barely thinks to contemplate it.

“To what?”

The level of Daryl's affectionate exasperation probably isn’t displayed properly in the light of the moon but he thinks Rick gets the message anyway. “What do you think?”

“It’s a ‘not here’ and a ‘not now’.” Rick says, shifts Daryl off his lap and catches him round he waist before he can think to move away, drags him back to lean against Rick’s chest. “But soon.” Accompanied by a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Why not now?” Daryl asks, runs a gentle hand along the leg to the right side of his hip, studies the way the muscles jump at his touch with some funny variation of pride.

Rick huffs a laugh against Daryl’s neck, and the shiver that follows has nothing to do with the breeze, even now Rick’s jacket is discarded beneath them. “We’re in a field, do you realize how unsanitary that is?”

“We could go home.”

“We _will_ go home.” Rick smiles at Daryl’s insistence, presses it against his neck and hopes Daryl can feel how happy he makes him. “But your adrenaline’s running high, and I’d like you to be able to say that again when it’s settled.”

“Say what again?” Daryl asks, shifts down in Rick’s grasp so he can turn his head to look at him. Rick takes the initiative to kiss along the shell of Daryl’s ear, blows against the blush that heats his skin.

He pulls off with one last kiss. “That it feels right.” 

“Not ‘I love you’?” Daryl says, shifting Rick’s arm off of himself so he can turn around in his grasp, sit down so he’s facing Rick and his bent legs rest over each side of Rick’s hips. Rick smiles up at him and Daryl knows that the very moon that denies him a perfect view of Rick’s face is offering Rick one of his own.

“That as well, but you’ve been saying it for a long time, indirectly, but there.”

“What about _it_ then?” Daryl says, not feeling even slightly bad about the minor guessing game he keeps sending Rick on, happy to sit here in this field all night and study that perplexed face under the lackluster light of the moon until the sun rises and illuminates it properly.

Rick smiles when Daryl does, and Daryl can only see it because his teeth are so damn white. “What about what?”

“About feelings?” Daryl says, smirks at his monetary upper hand towards someone who’s always one step ahead. “We’ve come right back round to them again.”

Rick sighs, wraps his arms fully around Daryl’s back to ease him into a hug, doesn’t even have to shift Daryl’s head into his neck because Daryl moves to rest it there himself, places a kiss upon his collarbone in what is quickly becoming his usual greeting when he gets the chance to say hello to any specific section of Rick’s body.

“If you’d have given me a worded reason, I’d be hesitant.” Rick says, his breath ruffling the yellow gems on Daryl’s dandelion crown. “Reasons are temporary.”

“So are feelings.” Daryl points out, not necessarily an intentional reminder of Rick’s marriage but serving as one none the less. He doesn’t think to apologize for it, knows that Rick knows that he didn’t mean it in any way other than comparatively. 

“But feelings linger, even when you’ve let them go.” Rick says, rests his head against Daryl’s and breathes in the smell of flowers, smiles at the familiarity. “Reasons come and go like regrets, feelings are a little more like memories.”

“It’s always about feelings.” Daryl says, pulls back to smile at Rick, happy to see that the moon’s shining on his face properly this time.

“It’s always about feelings.” Rick echoes, kisses Daryl because it feels like the perfect moment to express that which his words try so hard to summarize.

Daryl sighs, and Rick pulls away as soon as he does. He’s not shying away from the kiss so much as resisting an urge, knowing that he’s made the point of the field clear, that Daryl won’t push boundaries he’s set in place just as much as he wouldn’t push Daryl’s own. It’s a reassuring thing to have so much faith in each other, and the level of trust that’s accumulated between them both startles them on more occasions than not.

“I love you.” Daryl says, whispers against lips he knows are the most beautiful shade of red, even if he can’t see the extent of it.

“I love you too.” Rick says, wraps the words between them like they're kissing again, his lips brushing Daryl’s own on every syllable.

Daryl licks his bottom lip, resists the urge to pull it into his mouth if only because he knows Rick doesn’t like it. “I don’t want to let that go.”

“To ’let go’ of feelings is a very loose term, they’re too grounded for that, too intertwined.” Rick explains, trails a hand down Daryl’s back and rests it into the hollow there. He’s resting right above a scar, one of the more recent ones and Daryl wonders if he can feel it, whether he should feel more uncomfortable than he does. As it is, his muscles can’t find it in themselves to tense, and his mind gives them no reason to. “It’s more like unraveling them, they don’t budge easily.”

“You really love me?” Daryl asks, trails his own hand down to Rick’s scar. He knows Rick probably sees the symbolism of it, knows he can probably deduce a lot from something so simple. It doesn’t scare him though, just leaves him in awe of how much Rick is able to understand.

Rick tilts his head, kisses his cheek. “Is it so hard to believe?” 

“Yeah.” Daryl says, bites his lip despite his earlier decision not to. “That sounds whiny.”

“No it doesn’t.” As if on command, Rick’s hand releases Daryl’s lip from between his teeth, rubs away the teeth marks with his thumb. “I said feelings don’t budge easily, it’s because they reach so deep. Depth is scary.”

Daryl knows that, knows how many horrible things he buried deep so he’d never be tempted to explore them. His feelings seem to have shone so much light on them, and when he looks at them in such brightness he can’t remember why he relegated them to shadows, not when it’s so easier to see details in the light of day.

“You remember what I told Shane?” Rick asks, tilts Daryl’s flower crown back into place when it slips. 

Daryl smiles. “That my eyes were like the ocean.”

“Why would I give up the ocean?” Rick concludes, brushes Daryl’s hair back to see his eyes clearly. Daryl’s always wondered how much of the ocean he sees, whether it’s the color, or the rolling tide of emotion that so resembles the unpredictability of waves. 

“It’s deep.” Daryl argues, wanted clarity for himself despite Rick’s assurance. “Depth is scary.”

“Only at first.” Rick says. “It’s comforting after a while.”

The lapse into silence, and Daryl’s whole being feels more attuned to it than it ever has been, not looking for threats so much as signs of comfort, signs of enjoyment, the steady lull of Rick’s breath or the way his own eyelashes flutter against the skin of his neck. Barely audible noise that, for once, doesn’t sound anything but peaceful.

“Am I still speaking to Carol tomorrow?”

“If you don’t mind.” Rick nudges Daryl up slightly, slides himself from under Daryl and takes his hands to pull him up. “I won’t force you to do anything.”

“I know you won’t.” Daryl says, a chaste little kiss pressed to Rick’s lips just before they start walking. “I want to go.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want depth to be scary.” Daryl says, looks past Rick to the livestock as they walk past, one of the ones nearby lifts it’s head, looks directly into Daryl’s eyes and does nothing but blink at him. “I want to believe you love me.”

“I really, really do.” Rick says, noting the moment Daryl just had but choosing to say nothing about it.

“I want to be able to hear that, and not have a single doubt about it.” Daryl explains, and Rick can’t be offended that he doesn’t yet when he understands how hard it was for Daryl to even hear it, especially not when he knows how much Daryl wants to acknowledge the affection with no doubt to its intention. “And then I want to have sex with you.”

“Your perception of love is better now.” Rick notes, just as the car come into view down the trail. “As is that of touch.”

“My dreams still have potential.” Daryl says, smirks in Rick’s direction and hugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders. “And they’re almost always good.”

The drive home is near silent, Daryl’s hand linking with Rick’s own over the gear stick. 

They're exhausted when they fall into bed, but Daryl can’t hear the clock over the sound of Rick’s breathing, and time seems pretty irrelevant when he knows he can have this forever.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on this! You're all amazing! I appreciate every single kudos, comment and bookmark so much!
> 
> *Whsipers* We're so close to the sexy times. So close.
> 
> Sorry if the editing on this is a little lackluster! (especially to MermaidSheenaz, I promise this will be the last one and you in no way have to sort through it to find all my mistakes!) It's just been a bit of a bad day! I'll probably check it over after work tomorrow. I have checked through it, but I have probably missed things!

Daryl wakes up to a wreath of half wilted dandelions stuck in his hair.

In the light of a new day the whole thing seems a little stupid, but the level of affection an object can hold is becoming awfully abundant to Daryl, and if Rick blessed some dandelions with twice that amount of love and it got tangled in Daryl’s hair then so what? He’d detangle it with a smile, because its depth means it feels, and his difficulty in removing it means those feelings didn’t want to leave.

It’s too early for Rick’s alarm to go off, which means he’s still dead to the world. It’s not a good way to put it, not after recent familial revelations and the catastrophic accumulation of everything that came together and shattered apart because of it. It’s also not very suited, because Rick looks so very alive at all times of the day, even when unconsciousness leaves him unguarded and the shifted movements of sleep leave him ruffled. 

Daryl also knows that the thought of Rick Grimes being anything other than right here within Daryl’s reach, breathing lungs and beating heart and alive, makes Daryl shiver, want to burrow down in the marrow of Rick’s bones and stay there forever. It almost sounds like the forest, like the closest thing to sanctuary Daryl ever used to know, and the thought of curling up anywhere reminds him of the way baby birds used to and never will again.

It’s a sad thought, one that causes Daryl to instinctively shift closer to Rick, the man who single handedly wrenched all of the sadness Daryl clung to from his hands and blew despair away, let it catch on the breeze until nothing was left and hand Daryl the remnants of happiness, things he never knew could be so strong after being so overpowered.

He clings to the happiness with something approaching obsession, looks to the cause of it and realizes he never wants to let either of them go.

The bed shifts beneath him as he moves, but Rick stays still and the deep tidal wave of his breathing remains steady. He straddles Rick’s lap, rests as gently as he can against his thighs even though he knows they could take the weight, work through the pressure. As it is, he hovers above the fabric of Rick’s sweat pants, practically curls into his chest like the appeal of exposed skin was enough to make him touch, even when he said he wouldn’t.

Daryl rests there for a while, no ulterior motives in the movement past the overwhelming need for affection, for touch, to rest his head against Rick’s chest and hear his heartbeat, feel the movement of his lungs as they shift the rib cage beneath his hands. 

Eventually it’s not enough, and even the appeal of watching Rick sleep isn’t enough to dissuade Daryl from waking him up. He has to shift forward just slightly, but all in all he’s put himself in a very good position to reach Rick’s neck, suck, lick and kiss at Rick’s collarbone. It’s admittedly his favorite part and it works to be as comforting as his own thumb was for more years than he can count, it’s nice to relieve any lingering stress in a way that causes pleasure, especially to someone else, rather than causing nothing but deadened nerves and the hollow memory of butchered skin.

Rick shifts just slightly, as Daryl’s moving his lips across his jugular and up to his ear. Daryl smiles, kisses at the base of his temple, the edge of his cheekbone, the corner of his hairline. It all causes such subtle shifts, but Daryl is yet to see Rick’s eyes flutter, yet to see the familiar tilt that acts as a precursor for Rick’s opening eyes. It’s only when his lips plant the lightest of kisses on Rick's own that he shifts properly, lifts both his hands to settle them onto Daryl’s hips and blinks up at him, eyes narrowed as they’re blinded by the morning light.

The fact that Rick used to move away from Daryl, when he woke up and realized his body had taken the momentary shut down of his brain as an opportunity to grab for what it wanted, doesn’t miss Daryl’s attention. Especially in the contrast of here and now, the way Rick reaches for Daryl instinctively in consciousness, that his body and mind finally co-align into what he wants and grab for it as soon as they realizes it’s within their reach.

It makes him feel important. Makes him feel loved.

And Daryl supposes it really is all about feelings.

“Mornin’.” Daryl mouths, doesn’t lift his head to look at Rick because he’s too busy appreciating the movement of his jawline when he replies.

“Good, is it?” Rick asks, and the vibration of his throat as he speaks is quickly becoming one of Daryl’s favorite things, maybe second only to his collarbone, and his words, and his lips, and his eyes. And maybe his jaw.

Daryl move back to Rick’s collarbone. “Mmmhmm.”

“Waking me up with kisses.” Rick muses, strokes a hand down Daryl’s back. “What made you so romantic?”

“Might be the damn dandelions you got stuck in my hair.” Daryl quips, pulls himself away from Rick’s neck to face him, vaguely gesturing to his hair when Rick gets too caught up in looking at his face to notice it.

Rick lifts a hand to the crown, smiles as much as he winces when he realizes he can’t pull it off. “Stuck?” 

Daryl nods. “And if you think I’m wearing them to school you got another thing coming.”

Rick twists the flowers for a minute, notices the wilt that's just begun to turn them from a vibrant yellow to a dull one, wonders how Daryl can still look so beautiful even when something as pretty as flowers are dying in contrast. He belatedly think that the flowers should’ve lived anyway, what with the sunbeams of Daryl’s hair and his oceanic eyes to sustain them. 

“Come on.” Rick says, taps at Daryl’s thigh to shift him off his lap, twines his fingers into Daryl’s loosely gripped ones and pulls him to the bathroom. “I’ll help you get them out.”

When they get there, he stands Daryl in front of the mirror, weaves deft fingers through stands of hair and dandelion alike, being as gentle with one as he is the other. He doesn’t rip them out, carefully pulls each dandelion from where he’d slotted them together and undoes them individually. Daryl starts to think it’s a very good thing he woke Rick up before the alarm, else they would’ve both been stupidly late, that and the extra time means he can stare at Rick without feeling the seconds disappear as quickly as they normally do.

It takes Rick a while to get all of the flowers out, laid out in two rows along the edge of the sink. He briefly looks around for a comb, but resorts to his fingers when he can’t find one. Daryl thinks he prefers this to the unyielding feel of plastic anyway, the soft touch of fingers against his scalp one that lulls him into the nicest kind of relaxation, where he doesn’t envision those hands pushing, pulling, hurting him and where even the accidental tugs are softened by gentle kisses.

Both of them are watching the other look at them and it’s like a summary of their relationship, their care for the other, and if it isn’t some snapshot image of everything love should be, they don’t know what it is.

“Do you still want to talk to Carol today?” Rick asks, pushing Daryl’s bangs forward so they fall into his eyes.

“Do _you_ want me to talk to Carol today?” Daryl says, flicks them away again and has to lean down to pick up one of the dandelions when his movement pushes it from the sink.

“I’d like you to.” Rick’s hands pause, try to work out a particularly tight knot without hurting Daryl. Daryl smiles at that, because Rick’s hand aren’t capable of hurt, especially when they're against his skin and so feather light he hardly feels them. “But this isn’t just about me.”

Daryl smirks at him. “I think I’d like it more if it was.” 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Rick laughs, linking both his arms around Daryl’s waist and leaning round to kiss his temple, slightly red from where the dandelions has irritated the skin. It could’ve been an apology, from Rick’s perspective it probably was, but Daryl knows he has nothing to be sorry about.

“When could I even go?” He asks, tilts his head to the side so Rick can see him properly in the mirror, knowing how distorted his reflection used to be and wanting Rick to see it clearly now that it isn’t.

“She’s always in her room at the end of the day.” Rick nuzzles the side of Daryl’s neck with his chin, watching Daryl smile at the feel of stubble against sensitive skin. “She won’t mind speaking to you then.”

Daryl nods, looks to Rick in the mirror. “Will you come with me?”

“I’ll wait outside for you.”

“Why not come in?” Daryl asks, feels the usual urge to chew on his lip but resists. If he thinks about it hard enough, he knows the feeling isn’t as comforting as he always thought it was, that the pain just works as a distraction. It makes a lot of sense that Rick is so eager to stop the habit and Daryl wants to make him proud, not because he has to but because he wants to.

“I don’t want you to adapt your answers so I don’t hear the truth.” Rick says, kisses Daryl’s clothed shoulder. “I want you to tell her as much as you're comfortable telling her.”

“Why would I be more comfortable telling her than telling you?”

“You know me.” Rick smiles at him, turns his face away from the mirror so he can look at the real life version. Rick’s never particularly liked reflections, knows that Daryl doesn’t either, not with all they used to imply and all the horrors they used to spell out. “Sometimes familiarity warps the truth because you don’t want their opinion of you to change.”

“Would it change?” Daryl asks, turning to face Rick completely and leaning back onto the sink.

“No.” Rick leans back into the wall behind him and while it establishes distance they still feel close enough to touch. “But sharing for the first time is the hardest thing about admission and I don’t think I can watch you struggle.”

It might’ve sounded selfish, but nothing about Rick ever is and Daryl, for all he used to think (and still thinks) Rick so divine, realizes that even the most beautiful of people, those that make the sun envious of the way they shine can be as mortal as those the same sun refuses to touch. 

“What about you?” Daryl asks, runs a finger along the little line of dandelions resting on ceramic. Thinking back on it, it was almost sad to take them from the field, leave them to die somewhere so manufactured when they belonged in nature, but Daryl knows all about homes, knows that sometimes staying where you are can kill you as easily as leaving for parts unknown to you. It’s a risk that isn’t always worth taking, with benefits that make those considering it want to be reckless.

“What about me?” Rick asks, runs a hand through his curls to push them from his forehead. Daryl hadn’t noticed how long they were getting, but when he does he can’t really seem to stop seeing it.

“Don’t you want me to tell you?” Daryl says, shrugs his shoulders and keeps eye contact despite the nagging feeling that tells him to look away. “About… what happened?”

Rick steps forward, cups a hand to Daryl’s cheek. “Only if you want to.”

“But do _you_ want me to?” Daryl asks, encircles Rick’s wrist with his hand and holds on.

“I’d love to hear the truth.” Rick says, places a chaste little kiss against Daryl’s lips. It’s just as Daryl wanted to bite them, but he notices that Rick’s mouth feels a whole lot better than his teeth ever could. “But only when you want me to hear it.” Another kiss. “Only when you can say it without the fear of my reaction making it difficult for you.”

Daryl smiles at him, catches Rick’s lips when he moves in again and doesn’t let him leave. They both know momentary contact isn’t enough, that this has been building up to something far longer than either of them thought it was. Either way, it feels like the most important parts are already here, already being experienced. Daryl feels comfortable and happy and when he looks at Rick’s eyes he can’t find it in him to hate reflections, not when he sees the mirror image of his own emotions and it looks so much like love.

“I’d love to say I won’t react, no matter what you tell me.” Rick says, so close to Daryl that when he licks his lips his tongue brushes against Daryl’s. “But we already know it doesn’t always go that way. I don’t like hearing, seeing, or knowing you got hurt.”

“Same to you.” Daryl says, tilts his head so he can kiss Rick’s wrist. It doesn’t heal old pains, they both know it doesn’t, but it acts as good acknowledgement and even better acceptance.

“That’s why this is difficult.” Rick says, pulls his other hand up to Daryl’s opposite cheek and watches Daryl kiss that one too. “Hurt’s inevitable, but in cases like this, that inevitability is healing.”

“You’ll wait for me?” Daryl asks, not sure whether he’s talking about the arraignment with Carol, or sex, or everything. He supposes it’s about generalization and specification as much as feelings, and wishes he’d listened to the lessons he’s only just accepted when he was first taught them.

“Always.”

By the time the end of the day rolls around and the students have cleared enough to walk through the corridor without the questing eyes of those desperate for gossip, determined to know what Daryl Dixon’s done now, what he did to piss of Mr Grimes, why he’s even still here when he’s such trash.

Daryl doesn’t believe it anymore, has enough faith implanted in himself by people who believed it all along, even when they so struggled to make him accept it. It doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of what people think, that not everyone is as kind and accepting as the people he no longer has to tentatively call friends. Daryl has no doubt in his mind that the Dixons have been a stain on Georgia from the moment the first one was conceived. 

He normally wouldn’t curse anything as harsh as a whole town’s hatred on a child he didn’t know (or one he did know for that matter), but cycles so founded, so unescapable, must be years in the making, and Daryl knows the grudge he holds against them will last longer than their supposed ‘legacy’ ever could.

They get to Carol’s classroom easily enough, and Daryl wonders if the lack of any disrupting factors on the way here is a sign that he’s doing the right thing. Rick knocks on the door when they get there, waits a minute before opening it and guides Daryl in with a steady hand on his shoulder. It's contact, the exact type that Daryl craves, while also being considerate of where they are, and Daryl’s glad Rick has enough sense to remember the taboo of it all, even if Daryl could never again class anything to do with Rick Grimes as particularly forbidden.

Nobody who looks so much like a deity could be so sinful.

“Hey Carol.” Rick says, gently nudging Daryl to stand a little closer to her than he is, removing himself from the situation before he’s even properly gone.

“Hi Rick.” Carol says, smiles at him and holds it there as she turns to face Daryl. “You’re Daryl right?”

“Yeah.” Daryl smiles back, raises his hand towards her. “It’s nice to meet you Mrs-”

“Call me Carol.” She says, shaking his hand with her own and holding on when she notices the way he tenses. “It’s okay, all my students call me Carol as well. It’s a psychology class, I like us to be open with each other.”

“Okay.” Daryl says, pulls his hand back gently but nods at her explanation all the same.

Carol smiles at him, turns to face Rick just slightly, still keeping her body angled towards Daryl. “Are you staying?” 

“No.” Rick says, his attention as focused on Daryl as Carol’s is. “I’ll be outside though.”

“I know.” Daryl says, because he knows that last bit was for him, knows the tone of reassurance well. “I’m okay.”

Rick doesn’t need to be told twice, leaves with one last smile and a squeeze to the shoulder he led Daryl in with. Daryl watches him go, and maybe he should feel something like abandonment, even with how temporary the separation is. As is stand all he feels is respect, respect for Daryl and his boundaries, for the past that he hasn’t explicitly said he wants to share. That Rick can still be so patient, after so much of his time has already been spent waiting, makes Daryl feel a bone deep sense of relaxation that clears the very thought of worry from his mind.

Carol’s smiling at him when he looks back to her, and there’s a speck of secrecy there, a little hint of knowing. It’s hidden beneath enough layers of secrecy to know it won’t be spoken and Daryl commends her for hiding it so well, especially with how much she already seems to keep hidden. 

“How are you Daryl?” Carol asks, only once the door is properly shut and Daryl’s attention is completely focused on her. 

“I’m good.” Daryl nods, takes a breath to ward off any lingering tension before it can think to accumulate. “How are you?”

“I’m great.” Carol smiles at him, takes a seat on the edge of her desk and motions for Daryl to lean against the one opposite. “Do you want to know why I’m great?”

“Okay.” Daryl says, moving into the position opposite her, placing his hands back onto the table after deciding against crossing his arms. Something about that seems a little bit closed off for what is essentially therapy.

“I have a beautiful daughter.” Carol says, looks towards the window almost wistfully. “I’m dating a lovely man named Tyreese and he loves me and Sophia very much.” 

Daryl looks to the window with her, sees nothing but the gentle swaying of leaves in the breeze and the unblemished expanse of blue sky. He wonders what she sees, but he always did that with Merle and could still never decipher it, had since decided that other people’s thoughts were off limits for a reason, that any visions placed in the tranquility of landscapes is something only they could understand, symbolism so individual no one else needs to know about it.

“My husband’s dead.” Carol says, likes it’s an extension of the list. She sees Daryl perplexed look and smiles. “And that’s a good thing because he was a horrible man and I wouldn’t be alive right now if he was still living himself.”

“Sounds like a dick.” Daryl huffs, starts picking at a chip in the wood, not wanting to resort to biting his lip, even now that Rick can’t see him do it.

“He was.” Carol agrees, glances at (but doesn’t say anything about) the way he picks at the desk. “Would you like to tell me why you’re good?”

“I have my friends.” Daryl says, with as little physical hesitation as he had mental tentativeness earlier. He glances towards the door, back to Carol, considers the reference of a teacher to be harmless enough. “I have Mr Grimes.” 

“There’s something else you want to say.” Carol mentions, when he stops all movement but that of his hand against the desk. “You can say it.”

“My Dad killed himself.” Daryl tries for indifferent but it comes out a little unbalanced, like his words can’t co-align with his emotions and decide between happy or sad as an accompaniment. “I was sadder about it than I would’ve liked.”

“When Ed, my husband, died.” Carol says, after giving him a moment to look up at her properly. “I cried for two weeks.” She stops, lets that sink in and takes a deep breath before she speaks again. “It’s not a weakness to care, even about those who don’t deserve it.”

It’s so reassuring to Daryl and it sounds a little like Rick in the field. The combination of the two, both sides of the same opinion, is the most uplifting thing in the world. Daryl had been taught that any type of crying was a weakness, to cry for someone who not only taught him that, but made him cry enough to defy the lesson on more occasions than not, had seemed like Daryl’s biggest failure yet. And although Rick’s words mean everything to Daryl, he knows Rick would reassure him even if there was no reason to, even if Daryl really didn’t deserve the assurance.

Carol’s studying Daryl when he looks back towards her, like she could see his thoughts written on his face. “The ability to show compassion when you’ve been shown none yourself is one of the strongest character traits in the world.” 

Daryl nods, looks to the floor for a minute and then back up to her. “Did he hit you?”

“Yes.” She said, needs no clarification, needs no pity, no shoulder to cry on. Daryl can’t help but realize that he really likes that. “Did your Dad hit you?”

“He liked the belt more.” There’s no devolution into fits of tears, and Daryl supposes that’s the best he could’ve hoped for. 

“Left marks?”

“Left scars.”

“Is that a problem?” Carol asks, and it’s only then that Daryl really notices that they _are_ talking about problems, that she got him to speak without even thinking about it, without panicking. Now he’s here he realizes there really wasn’t much to panic about, not nearly as much as he thought there would be. It’s settling, it’s grounding, it’s the type of relaxation Daryl never really knew he wanted, to get a weight off his chest without the threat of dropping it, the fear of being unable to breathe around it.

“It shouldn’t be.” Daryl says, shrugs his shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes it does.” Carol argues, so gently it seems like she’s slipping right into Daryl’s head and just slotting the argument against his own, taking any threat of his disagreement along with her as she leaves, not disturbing anything but the problem she went in there to fix. “It’s an accumulation of past pains, one you can’t get rid of.”

“They don’t hurt anymore.” Daryl says, pointing out a similar fact rather than trying to disprove one of her own. “But knowing they’re there…”

“Is this about you knowing they’re there.” Carol asks, leaning forward slightly on the desk. “Or someone else seeing that they are.”

Daryl looks down to the floor, lets his eyes trail over to the door while they’re shrouded from her view. “Someone else.” 

“Do you hate them?” She asks, tilts her head down to catch his eyes. It takes Daryl a little while to realize that she's talking about the scars.

He shakes his head, keeps the eye contact as best he can. “I got used to them.”

“That means you hate them.” Carol says, smiling as if to make up for what could be considered harsh words. “No one wants to ‘get used’ to the things they like, they want to revel in them.”

“It’s not about me though, it’s about-”

“It’s always about you.” Carol points out, still so kind in her truth, even when this kind of truth should be painful. It makes Daryl want to listen, even though it should be so hard to hear. “They’re a part of you, and the fear of someone seeing them is a part of you too.”

“I can’t control how they react.” Daryl adds, raises an eyebrow at the same time as he raises a shoulder. “Their opinion isn’t a part of me.”

“No, it isn’t.” Carol agree, smiles like she’s proud of the assessment. “But the way you judge their reaction, the way you respond, that’s all you.”

“What if they think-?” Daryl trails off, the word on the very tip of his tongue but still eluding him, running from the idea of help like it’ll stop Daryl speaking it to someone who could erase the very thought of it from existence. Daryl admires it’s self-preservation, if only because it’s a part of himself.

“That they’re ugly?” Carol guesses, like she expected it. “Healing isn’t ugly, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world."

“I don’t care about that.” Daryl says, those thoughts long accepted in his head, long established with barriers that stop them being overpowering. Daryl’s never considered himself pretty enough for that ‘beauty’ to be excessively hurt by scars. “I don’t want them to think I’m fragile.”

Carol nods her head, like she expected that to. “Are you fragile?” 

“Not anymore.” It’s about as confident as anything Daryl ever does, and a stark contrast form the arrogant, self-imposed cockiness he used to adopt to sound anywhere close to it. Now he knows what actually confidence feels like he can’t believe he ever convinced himself that was a good substitute.

“Did they know you when you were?” She asks, and Daryl couldn’t look away from eyes that purely invested in the answer even if he tried.

“Yeah.” He says, thinks of all the cuts his cracks must have inflicted on Rick, that he still stuck around long enough to see them fix themselves together and become whole, even risked more splinters to help him on his way.

“They know the difference.” Carol concludes, stands up from her desk and paces to the window and back again. “Seeing strength in one of its most physical forms won’t change that.”

Daryl frowns. “What?”

“Scars are endurance.” She explains, looks towards him as she paces past again. “You have endured what you’ve experienced.”

“Do you have scars?” He asks, feeling risky enough to push the boat out as far as it will go now that the waters are so calm.

“A couple.” Carol shrugs, either feigns indifference a lot better than Daryl does or just really doesn’t care. “And Tyreese didn’t know me when I was fragile. He still thinks I’m the strongest person he’s ever met.”

Daryl really appreciates the personal example, really likes every single word she’s said to him actually. It’s nice to speak to a person who knows, even with how amazingly understanding Rick is, that understanding can never quite level to that bought forth from similar experiences.

“The most important advice I can give you is trust.” Carol says, steps slightly further into Daryl’s personal space, like she’s only just decided it’s safe to do so. “We can’t let past ruination of it distract us from the possibility of feeling it again.”

“I trust them.” Daryl admits, the easiest truth he’s ever spoken.

“Trust extends past face value Daryl.” Carol says it in a way that’s so assuring, like she knows exactly what he’s going through. Daryl supposes she probably does. “And once founded it isn’t easily broken.”

“Do you think it’ll be okay?” Daryl asks, finally stops fiddling with the little chip of wood, holds onto the table like it’s grounding him. “If I show them.”

“Do you love them?” Her eyes flicker to the doorway and it’s so subtle Daryl doesn’t consider the implication of it.

“Yes.”

“Do they love you?”

It takes a little longer than the first, but Daryl is no less certain when he nods his head in affirmation. “Yes.”

“Love isn’t unconditional.” Carol says, not as softly as one would think with the admittance of a fact that would crush many people’s hopes. Daryl's known that since he was a child, knows a lot of other things that should be equally as unconditional are actually not. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have faith in them, just means no unnecessary hope or unrealistic expectations can be left to fester into it either. “But it’s the closest we can get to a bond that is.”

Carol walks back over to the window, and Daryl, after a brief moment’s contemplation, stands up and follows her over. It’s a very brief moment, and Daryl’s sure it was probably the reflection of the glass, but he’s almost sure, even though there are none of them on the field, that he can see dandelion seeds floating on the breeze.

“Do _you_ think it’ll be okay, Daryl?” Carol asks, and Daryl can see her smile in the reflection as easily as his own, decides maybe they aren’t as bad as he thought.

“Yeah.” Daryl says, tries to spot the seeds as they float away but can no longer see them. “It’ll be fine.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much (once again) for all the support you guys have given me on this story! even knowing people are still reading this is the best feeling ever! :)
> 
> Here it is the highly anticipated (and probably anticlimactic) moment you've all been waiting for. It only took me 40 chapters and 140,000 words to get to the smut, and it probably isn't worth it but there we go! This isn't the end of the smut either so don't worry that it isn't full out yet! :)
> 
> I tried to take a different approach to Daryl taking his shirt off, not sure whether it really works but I tried! :)
> 
> This story will explore the issue of STI's a little while later, I know that they can be passed by genital contact but I know so many people who don't and many of the ones that are can be treated with antibiotics! (I think, no expert!) There will definitely be condoms used until a test, but please bear in mind that they don't wear one now because they are not participating in anal or oral. I know they still should, but please excuse that! :)

Carol’s words make a lot of sense.

In a way it really annoys Daryl that they do, especially after spending so much time listening to Rick tell him the exact same things but still being so dead set on not completely believing him. He trusts Rick with his life, but for whatever reason his words just flew over his head, settled at Daryl’s ever increasing highs but never rang true enough in a mind that can scarcely accept it to reach his lows completely, drive the point to a place where it can’t be overlooked.

Mostly he tells himself to be grateful for the opinion, the perception, the tried and tested method of moving on.

But moving on is a lot more difficult than people realize. Even when you’re shown all the happiness in the world, and you have the barest hint of limitations left to prevent you achieving it yourself, the density of past sadness is cloying. It doesn’t evaporate, it doesn’t disintegrate, it’s an odd type of mixture that can only blend with other emotions, be dulled but never diluted. If it could disperse it might be easier to forget, but something about the way it holds to it’s form, refuses to separate from that which sustains it reminds Daryl an awful lot of himself.

Maybe his sadness is a representation of his solidarity, that now he has such unity he’s unwilling to part from it, doesn’t want to mix with Rick Grimes so much as bend around his shape and smother him. 

He feels like he’s touching happiness, and while the feeling of that is something he never thought he’d get the opportunity to experience, the pressure that stems from trying to merge with a concept so completely is overwhelming. It reminds him of drowning, times where the noose around his neck was the only thing keeping him afloat. This isn’t the same, but it’s connotations are. It’s the balance again, the life and death, risking everything you have to get everything you ever wanted.

He’s already got it, he’s got Rick, can reach out a trembling hand and run it over scarred skin until it’s stable. But the thought of messing up, of losing something so precious to him would make the ground he stands on redundant, split the earth and send him straight back into the hell he came from like he never got so very close to heaven. 

Daryl knows it isn’t going to change anything, that taking off his damn shirt in front of Rick is not as much of a big deal as he’s making it out to be. But change has always been difficult for him, ever since Mom screwed over any elements of establishment he ever had. 

Carol said to _trust_.

Trust is so fragile when it’s barely had time to latch itself to something that had so little faith in it having the strength to do so. And even though Daryl trusts Rick with his life he wants to believe Rick trusts him too, that trust can adapt as easily as the people who founded it.

It might be coincidence that the cuts have healed over, might just be Daryl’s minuscule luck accumulating itself into one single fraction of fortune. Either way it makes it a little easier, even if the level of ease is still stupidly outweighed by the difficulty of anything regarding himself.

Daryl’s always had a bad relationship with himself. Never understood any of the ‘importance of loving yourself’ bullshit everyone preached about.

He’d never considered himself handsome, not even something as stupidly emasculating as _pretty_. _Cause that’s what Jimmy and Philip and Mark said._

He can remember his Mom’s words as much as his Daddy’s fists, can remember feeling absolutely lost because he never had known why people didn’t like him, why the other boys didn’t want to talk to him, why Merle (always) left him (alone, alone, alone, all on your own and nobody’s ever gonna love you, never, never, never).

And at an age where the world is horribly constricting and the reasons behind people’s actions tend to revolve around a sense of individual blame, Daryl had just assumed there was something wrong with him.

It had made sense at the time, because the key factor had _always_ been himself. Other people were sad when he was around, and if they weren’t sad they were angry, and when Daryl tried to keep his distance and stay by himself because he was obviously fucked up enough to fuck everyone else up, they just seemed to want to show him how miserable he made the people around him.

The bruises made him look disfigured, disproportionate and people seemed more angered by his marred skin than they ever did when it was clear.

Daryl had been with guys before. No girls, not because he never considered it, it was more because all the girls he’d known had been so damn broken, all mascara coated eyelashes that absorbed tears before they ever let them fall and cherry red lips that quivered with sadness, smoke stained teeth that bit at the tremble and played it off as arousal. He would’ve wanted to give them all the reassurance in the world but he couldn’t even make himself feel better about anything and he really didn’t think that much self-loathing in one room would’ve created the best atmosphere.

His back’s probably the best it’s been in a long time, since some vague time before all of this when Merle was _Merle_ and Daryl still hadn’t known who _Daryl_ was yet. It’s all changed, everything’s changed, and the simple fact that he’s still here, that despite all the odds he scared himself to silence with when he was younger, his heart's still beating like the rhythm of it never changed. Never jumped and slowed and damn near stopped for Rick Grimes.

Everything still feels difficult, because as much as the scars are holding him back it’s more about all the things Rick can’t see. It’s every internal mark left behind by the physical ones, it’s every bruise and burn and blemish that hurt so much more inside than they ever did on his skin, it’s the fact that the simple process of blood pumping through his veins always felt like bleeding out and that the air he breathed sat in his lungs like water.

The water he’s drinking doesn’t help matters, but setting the glass down and looking across the couch at Rick works as it always does. 

Rick’s staring at Daryl as much as Daryl is at him, the slightest of smiles just establishing that commonplace sense of serenity onto his face. Daryl’s facing the window, which puts the light at Rick’s back as the late day sun shines through into the living room. Rick looks like one of the stained glass windows in the church Mom always used to drag him to, illuminated with light but still so colorful, not at all washed out by something so bright when his own pigment is so distinct. 

The light casts him with a halo, and Daryl wonders when Rick transcended from a King to a God. Maybe he overtook Dad, the absence of divinity leaving a space Rick was only too happy to fill. It feels like the harsh ruling is over, that this new light brings forth the possibility for peace, for democracy, eliminates dictatorship like Daryl never suffered through it.

Daryl feels the soft remembrance of a dandelion crown encircling his own head, thinks that being crowned by something so divine must offer some sense of equality. Hopes the light shining on him can black out all that disregards divinity, pave the way from greatness alongside someone only too happy to share ruling.

“You know I have scars, right?” Daryl says, can’t even regret the words when they’re out in the open. Clarity’s what he wanted anyway.

Rick looks towards him, and he looks too far from indifference to look so calm. “I suspected.” 

“Why?”

“You have a fascination with mine.” Rick smiles at him, puts the shine of his halo to shame. Daryl takes a deep breath, because argumentation wasn’t what he was expecting, not so much as a deconstruction of all things logical. “Kinder than comparison, but contemplative none the less.”

“Sorry.” Daryl says, fiddles with the buttons of the remote beneath his hands.

“You don’t have to be.” Rick says, reaching across to twine their fingers together. A small part of Daryl still wonders whether the motion is just for the sake of the remote, but when he looks up Rick’s attention is completely on him and that tears the thought up and chucks it with the rest of them, everything he ever knew and all of it proven so very wrong. “I don’t mind.”

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Daryl asks, turns Rick’s wrist over and traces where a mark would be (could be), his finger doesn’t touch the skin, just glances over it and when he looks up at Rick there’s the weirdest sense of comfort on his face. “When I-” 

“There’s no malice in you Daryl.” Rick shrugs his shoulders and the motion’s easier than it used to be, like everything he ever struggled with just fell straight off of him. “You don’t want to make me uncomfortable.”

Daryl bites along the edge of his tongue, a new habit adopted once he realized how much Rick hated seeing him hurt, even something as inconsequential as a bitten lip. Rick might be getting more perceptive or maybe Daryl’s just more transparent, either way he sees right through him, rests a hand under his jaw until the movement of it stops. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable either.” He says, taps lightly on the underside of his jaw before letting him go, staying towards Daryl rather than leaning back onto the couch, squeezing the hand Daryl still has entwined with his own.

“I wouldn’t be.” Daryl says, knows Rick would give every concern he has in the world over to his discomfort if things like that actually solved it. “It’s just hard.”

Rick tilts his head, leans it against the side of the couch. It covers one of his eyes, and Daryl pretty sure the other one looks brighter because of it. “Thinking about the past?”

“I’m thinking about now.” Daryl says, mirrors Rick's position and wonders if Rick has any sentimental thoughts about his eyes over something as small as shifting. “The past is easy, it’s over.”

“Now’s over just as quickly.” Rick decides, after a moment’s contemplation. “Your deliberation and the decision to tell me is already in the past. Does that make it easy?”

Daryl shakes his head, muted against the back of the couch. “No.”

“The past feels easy because it’s a long way away.” Rick hasn’t looked away from him once, something in that makes Daryl think of gravity, be it of the situation or himself. “Someday this situation will be easy as well.”

“What are you-?” _trying to say, getting at, doing._

“Our perception of difficulty can be adapted.” Rick explains, smile half shrouded by a cushion but no less wide. “It’s our own minds, overthinking situations, overthinking repercussions, that make every decision so difficult.”

Rick brings his other hand up to their joined ones, trails a finger over Daryl’s knuckles as he does so. Daryl grabs the hand, entwines those as he had the others and holds on. He doesn’t need grounding anymore, not really, but the presence of someone who can do so if need be is one of the most comforting things in the world. Right now, Daryl doesn’t even care if love isn’t unconditional, because whatever conditions there may be seem weightless, float right on past the situation like dandelion seeds in the breeze.

“We can’t predict endings, not really.” Rick says, licks against his bottom lip in a way that’s entirely too distracting to Daryl. “But we can make the run up to them a lot easier just by not trying to.”

“They’re not pretty.” Daryl says, mainly because it’s the truth and that’s all he has to stick with.

“Neither’s mine, not really.” Rick says, shrugs the shoulder not melded into the leather of the couch. “Survival rarely is.”

Daryl huffs. “Hardly call it surviving.”

“What would you call it?”

“Suffering.”

Rick nods, squeezes Daryl hands in a way that feels more like reflex than anything else. “Who’s to say they’re not one in the same?”

It makes a lot of sense, just like everything Carol said did and Daryl can’t help mourning for the old him, the one that didn’t realize how much his own sadness factored into suffering, how he was as much his enemy as all those who hurt him. It makes him think of Merle, the way he might look at his past self, whether he reminisces with fondness or tries to forget. Merle’s still dangerous territory, especially when he’s so dead set on surviving and Daryl’s never been happier that he chose to live when he did.

“Survival is random.” Rick says, brings the back of Daryl’s hands up to his lips to kiss both of them. “Anyone can survive.”

Daryl turns their hands over, kissed Rick’s in return. “What are we then?”

“We live.” Rick raises his hand to Daryl’s neck, cups the side of it and pulls him forward for a kiss. “We love.”

He pulls Daryl up from the couch, leads him over to the mantle resting over the fake fireplace. Rick wraps his arms around Daryl’s waist, strokes a hand down the left side of his ribs and back up again to rest alongside his heart. He reaches around, pulls one of the angled photos to face them and leans his head against Daryl’s shoulder, kisses the space just below his ear and breathes against the blush that blooms there. 

“We’re family.” He whispers, reaches out a finger to trace the edge of the photo, a happily smiling Carl and a fluffy eared Lacy reaching back to him. 

“I don’t want to take it off.” Daryl says, keeps his eyes on the picture but curls a hand into his shirt beside Rick's.

Rick kisses his shoulder, doesn’t care about the fabric prohibiting his journey to skin. “You don’t have to.”

“But I want you to know.”

“I can know.” Rick reminds him, traces a hand down his back like he really does. “I never have to see them to know they’re there.”

Daryl grabs Rick’s hand, moves it from his ribs up to his collar and holds it there. It takes him a few deep breaths, and oddly enough a long glance towards Carl and Lacy’s photo to be able to speak, but he gets through it and the tremble is minuscule and Daryl couldn’t be prouder of himself for that.

“Dad knocked me into the cabinet, got a piece of glass stuck in there and Merle had to drag me to the hospital.” Daryl says, laughs like it’s all a joke and maybe that’s all it’s ever been, all it ever will be so long as he keeps it up. “It was a fucking mess.”

He moves Rick’s hand again, lets it rest against his ribs and overlaps it there. “One of Mom’s bottles. Merle has more of those ones, he always pissed her off.” Daryl can almost feel the distortion beneath Rick’s hand, watches him shift it slightly, running it up and down the section like he can feel it too. “Ribs were an easy target, some of them never really healed right.”

Rick doesn’t say anything, doesn’t sigh or shout or scream of unfairness and cruelty and it makes Daryl feel so much better about the whole thing. Rick has this carefully calm intensity to him, enough for Daryl to know he’s paying attention to every word he says, and that he’s holding back all the things Daryl doesn’t want to hear every time he speaks. 

Daryl leaves Rick’s hand where it is, motions down to his right calf, Rick smooths his hand down to Daryl’s thigh, reaching for the hurt even if he can’t quite soothe it. 

“Got caught in a snare.” He says, thinks of all the things he could say, that it was probably the most pissed he’d ever seen Dad past the dog, that it’d hurt like a bitch and the skin had ripped more than split. It all sounds too whiny, too much of a replay. “I was already hollering, so Dad didn’t really hear me shout.”

His eyes flick to the picture again, focus in on Lacy and it almost, just nearly, blurs the picture with tears. It’s only when he feels the tightness in his throat, the streams that run down his face that he realizes the only reason it isn’t blurring is because they didn’t have a chance to. Too many tears too soon, and maybe the ocean always had more emotion than Daryl thought because he never has been good at holding back tears.

“The dog died pretty quickly.” Daryl mentions, offhandedly, and if it wasn’t for the slight tightening of the hand around his waist Daryl would’ve though he missed the reference. “He skinned it, didn’t kill it first, it whined and cried…” He takes a breath, shakes his head and he can feel the press of Rick’s lips against his neck but it doesn’t quite register. “I can’t blame it, that shit hurt.”

“You don’t have to say anymore.” Rick says, so close to his ear, like he thinks the lack of distance will make the message louder, even when he speaks so softly.

Daryl ignores him, doesn’t even have to move Rick’s hand from his thigh to his back because it moves there by itself. He’s not sure whether Rick knows, not sure how he could know, or whether he’s just trying to be comforting, reassuring and ends up unintentionally prompting more information. He trails his hand from neck to tailbone once, and Daryl’s glad he established the size of the canvas, if only so Daryl didn’t have to explain the exact proportions of the artwork.

“Belt mainly.” Daryl says, feeling the steady jolt of Rick’s hand against his shoulder blade. It’s played off well, but Daryl’s back is both oddly deadened and extremely sensitive and that leads to a weird perception of touch that amplifies most movements and so rarely cancels out the ones he never wanted to feel. “Cigarettes as well, but only a couple.”

“Are you okay?” Rick asks, resumes his careful exploration of Daryl’s back, touching like he can see every scar through the fabric, that nothing’s shrouded but Daryl’s perception of secrecy.

Daryl tries to nod, but his head feels heavy, maybe because the entirety of the ocean is trying to spill itself from his eyes, collecting in scattered raindrops on the carpet beneath him, absorbing any noise of impact and leaving Daryl with nothing to go on, no Morse code to guide him back to where he should be, instruct him to pick up whatever’s broken and slot it back into place.

“I’m sorry.” Daryl says, resting his head back against Rick’s shoulder and letting the cool breeze of his comfort calm him down.

Rick tilts his head to study him, lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

“I’m crying.” Daryl huffs, brings his own hand to the eye Rick can’t reach and rubs against it. “Again.”

“Someone once told me that it’s hard to hold back the ocean.” Rick says, smiles at Daryl and runs his wet hand up through his bangs. “Maybe they were right."

Daryl shakes his head. “Maybe they were wrong.”

“Our perception of difficulty can’t be adapted when influenced by emotion.” Rick says, in that textbook voice that’s personal enough to sound self-scripted. “I think they were right.”

Rick unwinds himself from Daryl’s waist, turns him round with a gentle grip on his shoulder and wipes the last lingering evidence of tears from his eyes. That the timeline of sorrow has gotten shorter is not missed by either of them, and maybe Daryl’s closer to the happiness then he thought, finally realized how to mix the two together and find contentment. Rick leads him to the couch, bundles him up against the back of it and slots himself behind him, kisses at the clothed skin of his back.

“There’s no shame in crying Daryl.” He says, whispered words against fabric that Daryl would love to feel on skin. “No shame in suffering.”

It’s as they’re getting ready for bed, the time of day where Rick would undress and Daryl would look at the scar on his side and wonder why it was so different. Was it the infliction of it, the element of friendship woven into the pain? Was it the frequency, the size? That Rick only had one and Daryl has so many it was hard to distinguish them from each other, some that blended into others and made them twice as mangled as they originally were.

Daryl has to take his time about it, start with the one button he usually undoes and will his hands to keep moving. It’s a breath for every button, the expansion of his diaphragm almost urging Daryl to undo the rest of the ones restricting them, whispering words to him that aren’t cruel, that don’t hurt, little moments of _‘you can do this’_ and _‘we’re still breathing, we’re still here.’_ His body’s betrayed him a lot over the years and such a simple act of support makes him trust himself more than he ever has.

Rick isn’t facing him yet, and Daryl’s determined to get this damn shirt off before he’s done pulling off his own jeans. 

He manages to unbutton it, has to stop and bite into his lip so hard it bleeds. It’s not even fear, it’s frustration. That he’s seventeen years old, that he’s come so far since the scared twelve year old who didn’t know what to do about unwelcome touch, was scared to accept kindness because he didn’t know the difference between the two. All that and he still can’t get his damn shirt off and experience the type of affection he’s wanted to feel for years.

There’s a hand on his jawline, eases his lip out from between his teeth and wipes away the droplet of blood, lifts Daryl’s eyes to look into his own. He’s naked, but Daryl can’t even appreciate that when he’s so envious of his ability to be.

“You don’t have to.” Rick says, but he places his hand against Daryl’s bare chest and Daryl can’t help but let out the most stuttered sound he can ever remember making. It’s not life changing, the sky doesn’t fall down into the ocean and let the fish swim between the stars, but it feels good, and Daryl thinks that’s probably more startling then the fold of the horizon ever could be.

“I want to.” He says, shifts his shoulders like he’s willing the fabric to fall from them.

“Why?” Rick asks, tracing a gentle finger along the scar parallel to his collarbone. There’s no disgust on his face, not even any pity, just that introverted sense of sadness that Daryl knows would be expressed as easily as it is hidden if Rick believed it was what Daryl wanted.

“Because I love you.” Daryl says, smiles when Rick looks up to him. Imagines a crown of dandelions placed upon his head, seeds blowing away in the wind. “And it feels right.”

In the end removing his shirt isn’t a conscious decision, not when Rick leans forward and kisses him, circles a hand into the hair at the base of his neck and clings to him, like he thinks Daryl might disappear into himself if he doesn’t pull him back. They’re both naked by the time they hit the bed, Daryl’s shirt and pants discarded and forgotten somewhere towards the foot of it. Rick falls onto the bed first, had led them both there, and Daryl practically falls onto him, straddling him hips and chasing his lips.

Rick pushes up into Daryl, flips both of them over so Daryl’s head falls back onto the mattress, pillows cast askew and discarded. Rick’s hands rest to either side of his head and the feel of their hips colliding as Rick leans down to kiss him makes Daryl groan.

Rick pulls back, rests his forehead against Daryl’s own, circulating the air between them. Daryl can’t help the little abortive movements of his hips, searching for friction against Rick’s own and groaning when his half hard cock nestles into the crook of Rick’s hip, feels the heavy weight of Rick’s own against his stomach.

He whines when Rick pulls back, but he’s met with such a serious look, soul searching in its intensity and Daryl’s breath catches at the question, that even with the addition of honest interest Rick still wants to ask, still hunts for consent like he needs the words, even when he was always adamant that consent itself was anything but.

Daryl nods, knows the hunt for words but can’t manage to get any out. His throat doesn’t feel tight, his voice box just seems to be functioning in such a way that only allows for noises, unspecified and near meaningless in any situation other than this.

Rick’s head drops down to his neck, wrapping his lips around Daryl’s earlobe and sucking until he whines. He kisses down Daryl’s jaw, chases the noise back into his mouth but doesn’t stay long enough to prevent another escaping. He licks, sucks, kisses his way down to Daryl’s chest, places a kiss on Daryl’s scar that feels too intentional to be anything but.

“You know that doesn’t fix anything right.” Daryl gasps, trails off into a gasp when Rick’s hand brushes against his cock, wraps around his hipbone and holds him. It should scare Daryl, feel a bit too much like past dreams, but everything that ever classified as bad has never felt further away.

Rick hums against a nipple, laps at it as gently as he had the scar. “Is it wrong to acknowledge what’s broken?”

“You can’t love broken.” Daryl shakes his head against the pillow, cards a hand down into Rick’s curls as he licks down his ribs, drags teeth across every hollow and kisses every bump. 

“I can love you.” He argues, skims his lips over the scar on his ribs, and lightens his touches against the distortion in the bone, light as the feather he always wanted Daryl to be. “Hug you, kiss you.”

“You wouldn’t hug broken glass.” Daryl arches his back, chases the sensation of Rick’s mouth along his hipbones, thinks of past pains so easily chased away by pleasure, no more evisceration, not in the place of such exploration.

Rick skims past his cock with nothing but a breath of air, and Daryl had to lift a wrist to his mouth to capture the noises, feels Rick’s own encapsulate his wrist and draw it back down to his side, hum against a pale thigh at the moan Daryl can’t quite hold back. 

“You told me you weren’t glass.” He says, licks a stripe up the inside of one of Daryl’s parted thighs, the tip of his tongue coming so close to the skin of Daryl’s balls.

“And you still believe me?” Daryl says, his hand detangling its way from Rick’s hair as he moves further down, gentle nips until he reaches mottled skin, open mouthed kisses against scar tissue.

“You’re whole.” Rick says, lifts his mouth away from Daryl, stares up at him with such unabashed want that Daryl can’t stop the blush, feels it highlight his cheeks and creep down onto his neck. Rick has a hand on either of his ankles, not restricting him, but keeping the both of them steadily in place unless Daryl decides he wants to move. Daryl chest is heaving, his hair stuck to parts of his forehead and Rick thinks he looks absolutely beautiful, licks a long line back up to his hip like some kind of reward.

“I still see a lot of cracks.” Daryl breathes, watching Rick lie back down between his legs, prompt his knees to open more fully. He tangles a hand back into Rick’s hair, the other tracing over Rick’s arm absentmindedly.

“Cracks can come together.” Rick says, warm breath against such flushed skin and Daryl thinks he might die if Rick doesn’t do something, so unaccustomed to this type of pleasure. He feels like a virgin, and maybe that should be embarrassing but Daryl just feels cleansed. “Just as split skin can heal.”

Ricks hand encircles the head of his cock, strokes just lightly before pulling off again, making Daryl whine and throw his head back into the mattress, thrust his hips up towards Rick in search of the sensation. Rick smiles up at him, trails a line from Daryl’s balls all the way up to his slit, presses just gently against the bead of pre-cum forming there and uses his palm to pull it down Daryl’s length.

“You’re not dangerous.” Rick says, his own breath as heavy as Daryl's and cock flushed and red, bouncing against his stomach as he crawls up to chest level again, a hand to either side of his neck like he never moved from where they fell. “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

He hovers above Daryl, shifts his hip so Daryl’s legs fall to either side of them, gently thrusts forward against Daryl’s hip, feels the drag of Daryl’s cock against his own, the smear of pre-cum it leaves against his skin. He leans back down to Daryl, bypasses his lips and presses kisses against the shell of his ear. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He pants, hunts his way back to Daryl’s lips and practically devours them. 

“Rick!” Daryl whines, pushes his hips up when Rick pulls away, gasps when his hand moves down to circle both of their cocks. 

“You’re so beautiful Daryl.” Rick groans, pushes his hips into the grip of his own hand, gasps as Daryl’s own rises to join it, circles a sure hand around both of them and drags, pulls skin together until it pushes against the head, drags pre-cum from the both of them that falls in rivulets and drips down over his hand. 

“Rick!” Daryl says again, as Rick’s hand wanders back to his hip, encourages Daryl to thrust his hips up into his own. “Please, Rick!”

“What do you want sweetheart?” Rick breathes, places his forehead against Daryl’s own, watches the beautiful flush creep even further down Daryl’s neck, breathes in the labored exhales and revels in the fact that nothing but pleasure is the cause for his breathlessness.

Daryl's whines are near constant, his grip on the both of them tightening and Rick grunts into Daryl’s mouth as he slots their lips together, open and messy and so loving it hurts.

“Please Rick.” His voice is so high, so needy and Daryl can’t even be ashamed, not with the way Rick’s cock twitches at the sound of it. “I need to-”

“Common sweetheart.” Rick mouths at his collarbone, the one bare of any scar, rest his head against Daryl’s shoulder and grinds harder into his hand. “This is all for you, it’s all for you.”

Daryl moans, head thrown back into the pillow and back so arched Rick can barely see the movement of his hand over it. It’s when he moves his other hand to join Daryl’s, encircles their fingers together and adds just that inkling of pressure that Daryl’s gone, Rick following after him because the look of Daryl is so gorgeously rumpled. 

Their hips jerk through the aftershocks, pulling their hands away near simultaneously when the grip becomes too much for such sensitive skin. Their torsos are a mess of cum, sweat beading at their hairline and lips glistening with saliva, but Rick still falls against Daryl, keeps an arm underneath himself to prevent crushing him but Daryl just wraps his hands around Rick’s neck and pulls him down further.

“I love you so much.” Rick whispers, lost to the flames that crawl along Daryl’s chest, the blush that burns too bright to be anything other than a fire.

“I love you too.” Daryl breathes, pushes Rick’s head up so he can look at him, rumpled and ragged and beautiful.

They fall into the kiss more than anything, because all they need is love when they can let gravity do the rest.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to absolutely everyone reading this for all of your support! I say it every chapter, but it's because I really mean it!
> 
> This chapter might seem a little fast paced, or a little hectic compared to the rest of the story. Honestly, it's because I had so much to fit in here, and so much I wanted to include for you guys so I tried my best! It's the longest chapter yet because of it so I hope that helps! :) 
> 
> Some of it also might seem a little coincidental, but if everyone could excuse that it would be much appreciated! :)
> 
> Additional Warning for Attempted Rape.
> 
> Michonne is as much of a badass as she is an honest to god kind and funny person and no one will tell me otherwise ;) The humor in this might also seem misplaced, but I always think Michonne (Season 4/5) could be the type to laugh about bad situations (like she always does with Carl.) :)
> 
> For travel reasons, the library itself isn't on school grounds! Hope no one minds that! :)

The next day is blissful, waking up to the sun and giving it no consideration when the brightest being in the universe lies beside him.

He always wakes up first, something they’d both realized over the course of the three weeks they’d been sleeping together. Daryl has to smile as he shifts back into Rick, laying his hand over the one that rests against his stomach and twining their fingers together. 'Sleeping together' taken on a whole new meaning, no more literal associations towards it, and Daryl’s never been happier that expectations weren’t accurate, that everything he imagined was so far out of range that routine couldn't be established from it.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun just rising against the horizon, multi-toned glow filling the room, making Daryl look like the type of ethereal being he always imagined of Rick. His skin’s painted a blush pink, and even though that’s probably the reason Daryl can barely make out the jagged scar on his ribs, he likes to think Rick’s touch is just more healing than he ever gave it credit for. Either that or his own sense of self worth just evolved to a point it’s never even considered reaching for before.

Daryl shifts, just slightly, almost impatiently, wanting to be face to face with Rick more than anything but knowing that much movement would wake him up. He almost considers doing it anyway but there's something in him that screams for the silence, the serenity. Rick looks tired a lot, and part of Daryl knows it’s because of him. Despite that, it doesn’t make him feel guilty, just reassures him that he’d do exactly the same and that love outweighs exhaustion.

It isn’t the healthiest thought he’s ever had, but few of them were ever intended to be.

Rick wakes up as he always does, shifts towards Daryl and tilts his head against his neck. His breath tickles the sensitive skin of Daryl’s throat, the stubble burn turning his skin red. The slight pain molds into pleasure so easily, lingering kisses just peppering the edge of his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” Rick asks, looks up at Daryl when Daryl tilts his head round to face him.

“Never better.” Daryl says, twists his neck to nip at Rick’s jaw, running a finger over the stubble until Rick does the same. “Are you okay?”

“I’m perfect.” He says, smiles for a second before frowning, hand still cupping the edge of his jaw. “But maybe I should shave, your skin’s a little-”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Daryl says, drags Rick’s head back to his neck until the burn of friction with the soft movement of lips makes him hiss. 

They don’t say anything else about it, all in all they don’t really need to.

The world’s no different, changed neither for better nor for worse and Daryl can’t decide whether he was expecting that or the exact opposite of it. The lack of reaction from the world does nothing to cancel out how special the whole thing was, that Rick loves Daryl and Daryl loves Rick and who cares if the world didn’t notice because if either of them had the choice they’d keep the other a secret forever, hidden away from everyone and safe.

Driving to school is a little different, Rick’s hand linking over the back of Daryl’s own and moving the both of them to the gear stick, smiling periodically for seemingly no reason at all, but every time the sun creates enough glare on the windshield for their faces to be reflected, both of their eyes are focused on each other.

Carol’s waiting outside when they get there and Daryl’s hand raises instinctively to wave at her, not sure whether it’s in conformation of everything going well or for the simple reason that he’s as happy as he’s ever been, and happiness deserves to be shared. She waves back, smiles, and Daryl thinks she understands the muddled meaning as much as he does.

Parting from Rick seems easier, surprisingly, like there’s finally enough of a link to let him go, that he knows he can pull him right back with the intertwined chains encircling them both. They’re not restricting, fluctuate like love but hold firm like trust, and Daryl thinks that’s what a relationship is about, that love might not be unconditional but the bond formed when trusting in it is.

It’s the end of the day when the chain shortens again, Maggie and Glenn sat beside him and Rick giving them some generic task that’s well thought out, but rather lenient comparatively to what he usually gives. Daryl knows why he’s this unprepared, feels both guilt and a strange sense of exhilaration, hoping, for just a selfish moment, that everyone knows about them. Everyone knows that Rick Grimes choose Daryl Dixon because he’s worthy of him, he’s worth something.

Maggie’s looking at him by the time he can pull his eyes away far enough to merge back into the conversation, and Daryl has a horrible moment where he thinks she’s going to open her mouth and call him out on what she must’ve seen all over his face, the selfish moment all but gone and exhilaration exchanged for expectation.

“We’re gonna go over to mine and study.” Is what she actually says, smiling at him with her hand firmly clasped in Glenn’s. “We wanted you to come with.”

“We?” He asks, looks between the two of them.

“Glenn, Beth.” Maggie lists, rolls her eyes at him good naturally. “Me, obviously.”

“Beth?” 

“She’s got some exams coming up too, we can all help her.” Glenn says, flicks at his delivery hat as it rests on the table. “Study while we teach.”

Daryl nods, bites at just the inside of his lip. He’s never been with other people while he studied, not unless other people counted as Philip. He wants to study, because he wants to pass, and he’s already realized that he’s never putting himself in the type of position he used to again, not when he knows how good sex can feel, how happy he can be, how it isn’t embarrassing so long as no one’s humiliating him.

“Alright.” He says, startles a little when the bell goes, picks up his bag from the floor and throws it over his shoulder, glances towards Rick while he does. “I just need a minute before we go.”

“We’ll wait outside.” Maggie mouths, when the majority of the class chooses that time to rush for the door. They’re swept away in it, but Daryl’s pretty sure he can see Maggie wave from the waves, and companionship in the ocean is something he never expected.

Rick walks over to him once the class has emptied, still keeping a respectable amount of distance, more willpower than Daryl can ever imagine having just because he wants to keep them both happy. Daryl leans back into the desk slightly, and the smile that graces his face is so easy to hold he barely realizes it’s there.

“Is it alright if I go to Maggie’s?” Daryl asks, brushes a hand ever so lightly, ever so subtly against the fabric covering Rick’s thighs, wanting to kiss his way up them like Rick had done to him.

“Of course it is.” Rick says, like he still can’t understand why Daryl would think the opposite. “You going to study?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll enjoy it.”

“What are you gonna do though?” Daryl asks, reaches out a hand to brush it against Rick’s knuckles. Daryl knows the brief look around is for nothing more than their own continued protection, but he can’t help but wish it wasn’t an issue, that he could sit up on Rick’s desk in the middle of class and hold hands just like Maggie and Glenn do.

Rick shrugs, nudges his finger back up into Daryl’s. “I need to go shopping, I’ll do that then pop round and pick you up.” 

“How long does it take you to shop?” Daryl asks, knowing it’s a stupidly fragile want to plan out the whole thing, to be ready to leave as soon as Rick’s ready to go. He knows he’s not an inconvenience to Rick, but he never wants to become one either.

“You won’t have to rush for me.” Rick says, brushes the softest of touches against Daryl’s cheek, pulling away like it hurts him to resist the temptation of touch. “If I get there early I can talk to Hershel, you can spend as long as you like there.”

“Okay.” Daryl says, closes his eyes a fraction longer than usual as he smiles.

“I love you.” Rick says, quieter, but no less intense than shouting.

“I love you too.” Daryl mirrors, reflections no longer the nightmares he knew them to be.

It’s no less difficult to part with Rick now, despite the lingering want to be as close as he can possible get, take of all their clothes and be skin to skin, lips melding together to get inside, because sometimes skin just doesn’t feel close enough.

Maggie’s leaning against the opposite wall when Daryl gets out, minus Glenn but with a wide enough smile to make up for the absence. She reaches towards him, grabs his arm and practically forces it down to his hip, slots her own arm through it so they can walk together. Daryl would think of Glenn, but Daryl’s learnt enough about varying intimacy to know that there is nothing sexual in this, also knows that he’s gay enough to make that argument irrelevant.

“Glenn had to run home to grab something.” Maggie says. “He’ll be along later.”

Daryl hums, looks up to the sun shining down onto the field, the steady heat of it sinking into Daryl’s skin and warming him. He wonders if Maggie thinks his hair is golden in the sun too, or whether only Rick can make Daryl look that expensive, that sacred. 

“I know you’re going out with Rick.” Maggie says, only when they’ve reached the edge of the woods Daryl convinced her to walk through, assuring her that it was the quickest way there.

Daryl doesn’t stop walking, but the hand on Maggie’s arm tightens. “Did you hear-?”

“I knew _way_ before that.” Maggie huffs, leans in towards him and squeezes his arm to relax it. “I had my suspicions ages ago.”

“What changed?” Daryl asks, mildly concerned that others might recognize it too, the Daryl's good dreams will come true only to turn into some nightmarish reality.

“Both of you, at the same time.” Maggie says, lets Daryl lead her through the woods without a single care towards where they’re going, her secret smile lighting the way home. “Love will do that.”

Daryl glances at her from the corner of his eye, sees the way she looks so generally happy for him, so content in something that others would be so unsettled with. She looks towards him, catches him looking just before Daryl manages to look away, and her sigh practically vibrates along Daryl’s arm.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” She says, nudges her arm further into Daryl’s ribs and holds it there until she has eyes contact. “You’re good together.”

Daryl smiles, runs his free hand against the bark of the trees as they pass them. “Thank you Maggie.”

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

“Oh sweetie.” Maggie hums, mirrors Daryl’s position so her own fingertips just about drag along the bark. Daryl would pull her hand back, sure that such soft skin couldn’t protect itself from roughness like Daryl’s own could, but reminds himself of all the times he’s vastly underestimated Maggie’s strength, her durability, and shuts his mouth before he can do it again. “Love’s awful hard to misunderstand when it’s the only thing that feels understandable.”

“I did.” Daryl says, because he thinks he must take some kind of award for the longest ‘getting my damn head together’ phase in existence.

“No you didn’t.” Maggie argues, ever so slightly chastising. “You knew love, you just thought it would hurt you.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Nothing hurt-”

“Not anymore.” Maggie corrects, despite whatever Daryl was going to say. “But it did.”

“I have Rick.” Daryl says, the simple shrug that accompanies it not able to show the sheer magnitude of that statement, the ownership he can so easily place over something he had never thought he’d have.

“Why do you think it doesn’t hurt anymore?” Maggie sighs, pulls her hand across her chest and rests it against Daryl’s bicep. “There’s nothing more healing for a heavy heart, than another one to share the burden.”

Daryl looks away, can see the farm on the horizon just behind the tree line, and thinks that this is the place it all started, the place his life began, the wonderful link between the ocean and the ozone that let two things mix, despite all the odds against either of them ever touching.

On the other side of town, Rick sits down into his car and turns on the engine so fast he thinks he might’ve bent the key. 

It hadn’t taken him very long to finish shopping and he’s not going to lie to himself and pretend he doesn’t throw everything in the back of his car and come very close to breaking the speed limit the entire drive to Hershel’s.

Rick isn’t planning on going to the library, and to be perfectly honest he barely remembers the negative associations Daryl had with the place, mainly because the looped photo album of everything Daryl is holds no place for pain when all Rick ever wants to see is beauty.

It’s only when he’s stuck in traffic, looking out at the vague line of the horizon through the sparse trees lining the road (and he probably shouldn’t be seeing Daryl in everything he looks to, but Rick sure as hell isn’t looking to the trees because he appreciates them more than that which he associates them with) that Rick thinks he should probably pick up a book for Daryl, one of the textbooks the library was so prolific with. It’s not any more than he’d do for any of his students, and the road down to the library looks clearer than the one he’s currently stuck on.

He turns off, makes a right and heads back down to town, the multi-colored splotches against the oscillating distance telling Rick two things. Mainly that the temperature is causing heat waves to rise off of the tarmac and the movement of it is making Rick question his stability, that, and the fact that the traffic obviously stretched a lot further than he thought it would.

Rick sighs, pulls the car to a stop behind some dark blue Mercedes and wishes the traffic would hurry up and move along, so Rick could pick up this book and get back to the only thing he was moving to. 

It’s only when he gets closer, at least notes that the traffic isn’t the dead set standstill it had been previously that Rick sees the cop cars. The car before him shifts into the other lane, a cop waving them around the haphazard cones placed into the road. Rick follows the Merc, unable to resist the basic human need to look at devastation and revel in the contrast it has to your own life, that right now you’re day is going better than at least one other person's.

It looks like a logging truck, and all Rick sees is broken glass on the tarmac, dead trees toppled onto the road, some of them just smoldering with the last remnants of fire, half buried in ashes and glowing. There’s a length of rope snapped in two, frayed edges feathering and trying their best to float away from the wreckage as the breeze passes them by. There’s the barest hint of a motorcycle, half crushed beneath the front wheels of the truck and Rick can’t help checking it isn’t Daryl's brother's.

It isn’t, but it doesn’t make the sight of the situation any better.

Though despite all of it, the vague look of what might be blood disappearing beneath Rick’s car as he drives and the obvious devastation of someone’s life even if it wasn’t completely destroyed, there’s a park along the side of the road. It’s not the one by the field, and Rick thinks it must be new, can’t remember seeing it before regardless. There’s a child and a dog running in the distance and Rick can only just see them past the livestock grazing among dandelions.

Rick bites his lip, keeps driving, and finally understands why Daryl always does it.

When he does get to the library, it’s quiet. Parking is easier than the drive itself and Rick’s walking through the front door before he even considers who works here, who he might see, what things had been done to someone so newly beloved in a place so historically abandoned. 

There’s no one at the front desk, and it’s strikes Rick as slightly odd. Even despite that he keeps walking, down the stairs and around the corner into the school section. The library is a big place and it’s only when he’s closer to the back of it that he actually hears evidence to anyone else being here.

“Don’t touch me.” It’s quiet, and Rick has a job making out where it’s coming from let alone what exactly was said.

“Come on.” Deeper, a dangerous hint of humor tossed on unbalanced threats. “It’s me you want.” Cooing, almost loving, gentler then the first. “It’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to pick up a book.” Female, definitely, slightly husky in its pronunciation, monotone in it’s recital. “But I bet you tell that to all the girls.”

“There’s no need for either of us to suffer.” The sound of a hand slamming against wood has Rick narrowing his eyes, tilting his head and walking further towards the sound. For all his earlier ignorance, Rick’s only too aware of what exactly happened in this library now he’s hearing evidence of it. Rick makes his way over to the English section, sticking close to the bookshelves, he doesn’t know exactly where they are, and it takes him a minute to locate the sound to the corner of the room. 

“You don’t have needs.” The girls again, and Rick can imagine those words accompanied with a glare. “You have wants.”

“Exactly.” Like a purr, and if Rick had been a kitten guy he would’ve been sorry for the comparison, even as he is now, he’s still mildly apologetic over it. “Why deny anyone what they want?”

“Get your hand off of me.” A push, shove, some evasive movement that causes the scuffing of shoes and the sound of impact into another bookshelf.

There’s a pause, a growl and Rick can hear it all so clearly he’s sure they must be right behind this shelf. “Take off your shirt.”

The skin on skin is obviously a slap, and Rick supposes that all things considered that’s the best way any of this could go. Something tells him it was the girl, and his footsteps speed up as he hears the heavy breathing, angry exhales that string off into growls, words partially blocked by a hand across his mouth.

“You little _bitch_.”

Rick’s round the corner just as the guy lunges for her, sees a swirl of dreadlocks and the impact of the guy falling against the bookshelf before he can realize the girl’s moved out of his reach. She kicks at his kneecap, and for all that he deserves it Rick can’t help but wince at the noise, the impact of landing on something that must be fractured at the very least. She turns away, looks towards Rick but he can’t even think of making some vaguely reassuring movement when he sees the guy reach out for her ankle.

He just about gets a hand round it by the time Rick slams into him. Knocks them both over onto the floor and punches the guy before he realizes he’s down. It knocks his head back and, unlike the sound of bone cracking, this impact is satisfying. Rick grips at his knee when he tries to get up, wraps a hand around the bone and presses until the gasped out breaths sound more like breathless screams. The guy looks about ready to pass out, and it’s only when Rick glances down at him, eyes drawn more to his name tag than his face, that he really wants to make that happen.

_Philip._

There’s no noise to his shouts, the breath all but gone from his lungs and Rick has no problem pressing his hands to that windpipe, pressing down to deflate what’s left, only letting up when his eyes are fluttering and there’s no more air to reply on.

He still has a pulse, and something in Rick, just towards the wrong side of old shadows, wants to feel it stutter, struggle, stop.

A hand touches his shoulder just as he’s letting go, and Rick’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to see whether it was going to restrain him or help him finish the job. He stands up, turns around, and comes face to face with the girl he’d only caught a glimpse of earlier. He stops when he does, because she looks so weirdly familiar and it takes Rick a while to place it.

“Daryl’s friend.” He says, remembering the relief at seeing the lot of them, ricocheting off that which focused solely on Daryl and encompassed them in the feeling too.

“Michonne.” She corrects, smiles despite everything and holds out a hand.

Rick shakes it more out of routine, something driven into him since he got his degree and spent the week leading up to it reminding himself which hand he was supposed to shake with. It’s not overly friendly, neither is it completely indifferent, and Rick decides anyone who can smile after being assaulted is probably one of the strongest people in the world and someone who takes the time to get to know Daryl Dixon must be one of the best judges of character.

“I had him.” Michonne says, takes her hand away and waves it towards Philip.

“I know you did.” Rick agrees, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. “That wasn’t for you.” 

It sounds harsher than he expected it too and he sure as hell didn’t mean it that way, but something in the way Michonne smiles tells him she knew that and he can’t help squinting his eyes at her while the phone rings, because all in all it looks like she knows _exactly_ what he meant by it.

“Shane?” He asks, as soon as the call picks up. “Have you transferred back yet?”

“Was moving all night.” Shane sounds tired, and Rick knows tired well. Even then, he wouldn’t miss out on this opportunity to accept Shane’s readily applied offer of help. “Why?”

“I need you to come pick up this guy, make sure he gets put away.” Rick says, aims a kick at the guy’s ribs, doesn’t even care when Michonne smiles and does the same thing.

“Is this about your boy?” Rick wouldn’t have chosen such a term of endearment himself, but he can’t deny the warm possessiveness that sweep through him upon hearing it.

“Yes.” Rick says, eyes glancing to Michonne again momentarily. “But not completely.”

“Rick, I can’t just arrest people with no evidence.” Shane sighs, and Rick knows enough about him that the movement on the line is probably his hand lifting to rub against his head.

“It’s a good thing I just caught him harassing someone then.” Rick hums, watches the way Michonne smiles and wonders what the hell she’s thinking. “Attempted rape, assault.”

Shane sighs again, and the shifting this time sounds more like him getting up. “What about Daryl?”

“He’d never admit it.” Rick says, shakes his head and tries not to bite into the fleshy section of his lip, in a way it doesn’t matter, Shane would know he was doing it and stop him before Rick could remember why he was mauling at himself in the first place. “Not in front of people, and I won’t make him.”

“Okay.” Shane says, huffing out breaths as he runs down the stairs, the sound of a car door closing and sirens making Rick smile in the weirdest way. “Guy sounds like he’s been doing it for a while anyway, I’ll come pick him up, get some dirt on him, get him put away.”

“Thank you Shane.” 

“The world could do with a few less assholes.” Shane shouts, when he gets out onto the freeway and really floors it. “Maybe putting them away makes me a little less of one.”

Rick goes to deny it but Shane hangs up before he can. Rick sighs, runs a hand through his hair, slightly displaced from whatever that was with 'Philip'. It was slightly too one sided to be called a fight, but Rick thinks he had a good reason to turn it into one anyway.

“My friend’s coming to pick him up.” He says, turning round to face Michonne.

“Your friend?” She asks, lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s a cop.” Rick explains, turns to look at Philip before glancing back at Michonne. “You do want to press charges, right?”

“Hell yeah.” She says, and Rick thinks it would normally be humorous but she looks far to serious and the situation in general leaves little to laugh about. “Shame he only touched my arm though, could’ve been in a whole lot more trouble.”

Rick tilts his head from side to side. “He’s done more before.”

“I know.” She says, smiles all sickly sweet and Rick has to double take because it’s that much of a personality shift. “And he did things now, I was so scared, thank you so much for saving me Mr Grimes, I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did!”

“What?” Rick laughs, despite his earlier insistence on the absence of humor.

“I did Drama for three years.” Michonne explains, back to monotone with a hint of sharpness, something dangerous just like Rick felt earlier. “You think I’m not gonna play this shit up?”

“It’s illegal.” Rick doesn’t point it out to entice her away from the idea, but what type of teacher would he be if he encouraged breaking the law?

“So’s rape.” Michonne shrugs, and despite everything, Rick’s pretty sure she isn’t referring to her close call. “Somehow I think I’m in the right.”

“You are.” Rick says, and the sound of sirens is conformation enough.

Rick takes Michonne with him, wouldn’t have had a choice by the time he’s waited for her to cry at Shane, Shane nodding his head and jotting things down and taking her number so they could phone her up later. As soon as she knows he’s heading to the Greene’s house she wants to come with him and Rick thinks he might have underestimated her attachment to her friends though her uncaring personality. He got the vibe of a lone wolf, but perhaps she was another variation of the type he knew all to well, the ones that wanted a pack more than anything, but struggled with the commitment of friends.

It’s a ridiculously pleasing sight to see Philip in the back of Shane’s police car, and the way he’s looking at Michonne through the window is certainly doing nothing to help his case.

Once they’re safely in the car –

“Put your seat belt on.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“So live a little.”

“There is a cop directly in front on me, put your damn seat belt on.”

-It’s a relatively smooth drive to the Green’s house. The traffic’s cleared up, as has whatever accident was causing it, and even though Rick’s sure he can still see the spill of blood as it travels through his headlights the cause of it is far enough away from his mind for any evidence of it to be disregarded.

Daryl’s standing on the porch when they get there, and Rick would feel guilty for making him wait if he didn’t have a good reason. That and if he hadn’t noticed the cigarette in between Daryl’s fingers as soon as both of them are out of the car and walking towards him.

“Hi Daryl.” Michonne says, stepping up onto the porch just as Rick does.

“Hey.” Daryl answers, looks between the two of them, eyes catching on the bottom of Rick’s sleeve just as Rick looks down to see blood marring the white edge of it. “What happened?”

Michonne shrugs, walks past Daryl and into the house, turning back to face him at the door. “Just some asshole in the library.”

She walks inside, leaving Rick to deal with the way Daryl’s head whips away from her towards him. He’s not quite shaking, but the end of his cigarette looks shaky, spilling the slightest sprinkling of ashes onto the floor. He takes a drag of it, most probably to calm himself, and Rick wishes he could’ve convinced Daryl to quit this too, can practically see the smoke festering into his lungs and hurting them, crippling them, making life with anxiety a hell of a lot more difficult then it needed to be.

“What did she just say?” Daryl asks, the smoke billowing from his mouth like clouds.

“It was Philip.” Rick says, puts each hand on the side of Daryl’s neck as soon as he does, holds him together just in case. “Shane took him in.”

Daryl nods, looks back toward the house. “Did he…?”

“No.” Rick shakes his head, kisses Daryl’s forehead and presses his own there. “And he won’t. Not again.”

“It was selfish not to say anything.” Daryl whispers, one of those prayer like admittance's that make Rick’s heart hurt, whispered to him like he’s a deity, like he has any right to call Daryl out on sins they’ve both committed. 

“Self-preservation isn’t selfish.” Rick says. “You’re not selfish unless your sense of self is established enough to choose to disregard helping others, if it’s not, _you_ have to come first.”

Daryl lifts a hand to Rick’s hair, curls his fingers into the short, wispy strands at the base of his neck, stroking through them and tapping against the skin until Rick gets the hint and fits their lips together. Pressing a thumb to each point of Daryl jaw, he presses up, tries his best to get the best angle, the best pressure, everything that Daryl loves him being so considerate about. 

The hand not in Rick’s hair trails up his chest, tries it’s best to merge into the weave of his shirt and blend straight through into his skin. Rick’s own hand moves to Daryl’s hip, and if Daryl wasn’t already pushed up against the porch railing he certainly would have been then.

“Daryl-oh!”

Rick pulls away from Daryl, takes a few steps back for good measure and Daryl’s left to deal with Beth’s deer in the headlights look all by himself. She looks startled more than anything, not angry, not accusing, not disgusted, and Daryl’s really glad for it, knows he wouldn’t want to see such honest to God _pretty_ features twisted into anything other than a smile. She looks between them for a minute, takes in the way they both look so resigned towards something awful.

Beth can’t help but smile, because love always was her favorite thing to read about, and forbidden love was a plot to cherish.

“Your brother’s on the phone for you Daryl.” She says, keeps her smile firmly on her face.

Daryl blinks at her, wonders where the hell the day went and how he ended up here. “What?”

“Said it was his one call.” The smile drops just a little bit, but Daryl supposes if anything made happiness fade it would be the Dixons. “That our number was the only hope he had of reaching you.”

It says a lot. Merle reaching for him rather than the other way round, and Daryl isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing, knows something bad must’ve happened or it wouldn’t be a possibility in the first place. The ‘one call’ only backs that up, and Daryl wonders when his expectation turned to reality, the idea that Merle would always end up behind bars, find his way back to where he felt comfortable despite the opportunities waiting for him if only he would open his eyes and see them.

Rick walks in with him, and Daryl’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that Hershel has the phone, accepts it as gratefully as he looks towards Rick and Hershel as they start herding everyone out of the room. Only Rick steps back in, shuts the door behind him and takes Daryl’s hand in his own, squeezes in question and waits for the mirroring feel of conformation.

“Merle?” Daryl asks, once he feels like the words can hold more than air and intention. “Do I need to come bail you out from somewhere?”

“Ain’t no bailing me out this time Baby Brother.” Merle sounds odd, both better and worse in the same sentence, and Daryl doesn’t like the implication of his words at all.

He takes a breath, can’t get the words out, and it’s only the staccato rhythm of Rick’s fingers against the delicate flesh of his forearm that prompts him to speak. “What?”

“I shot Jimmy.” Merle says, like it’s no big deal at all, so steady, so serene, that Daryl can do nothing but repeat himself.

“What?”

“I know what he did to you.” It’s not any harsher than his admittance, and Daryl doesn’t know what to do with the calm version of Merle any more than he ever knew what to do with the calm version of Dad. “Came over to the trailer, drunk as shit, asked for you.”

“Merle-” Daryl tries, fails less because of humiliation and more because of hurt, and isn't that the trade-off he never wanted to make.

“Told me all about that little agreement he had you believing.” He sounds sad, so honest to God sad, and Daryl doesn’t know what to say. “How it all started.”

Daryl has to take a minute, try and breathe, not because he feels panicked but because it feels like the end of everything that could ever get him to that point. Every monumental moment that could’ve crushed him is here, it’s happening or it’s happened and Rick was right when he said that everything would be in the past, that everything would feel easy someday, because a lot of the already feel like mountains that were demoted to molehills.

This isn’t one of them. Not yet.

“I’m sorry.” Daryl says, because what they hell else was he going to say.

“Why the fuck are you sorry?” It’s angrier then the last, but the type of introverted frustration Daryl knows all too well, the type the burns and burns until you’re nothing but ashes, everything Merle said he would never be. “You ain’t got a single damn thing to be sorry about.”

Daryl shrugs, clutches to Rick’s hand but doesn’t look his way. “I didn’t say no.” 

“How fucking old were you?” Merle says, all the potential of a shout but fragile enough to be nothing more than the Dixon version of a whisper, all hushed, choked half silence and not a lot else. “12, 13?”

“It doesn’t matter-”

“Of course it fucking does,” Merle interrupts. “How were you supposed to know what to fucking do, tell Dad?” There’s a bitter laugh, a hurt one, one that rings with acceptance of something that they never wanted to come true. “Or what, tell me?”

“You’re not Dad, Merle.” Daryl says, one last reach into the water, one last attempted climb to heights he’s long since been unable to reach, a broken tightrope blowing away on the breeze.

“I bet he did it while I was there.” Merle chokes, and he’s not crying, Daryl knows that, but it’s the closest he can remember him being. Knows the type of angry tears that scratch your throat and hurt so very, very much. “Bet I was high of my ass.” 

Daryl shakes his head, feels Rick place a kiss on his forearm. “You didn’t know.”

“How many times did he do it, huh?” Daryl shuts his eyes, opens them to see Rick. “How long’s this been going on, he have his disgusting hands all over-”

“You didn’t know.” Daryl repeats, slow syllables and even slower meaning. 

“I didn’t.” Merle agrees. “And that’s my fault, ain’t a single thing you did wrong, ain’t gonna hate you for being ra-”

“Stop.” Daryl says, and there must be something in his voice that gets through whatever cloud of hatred Merle’s swirling in and makes him see the pain, maybe even makes him feel it. “It isn’t your fault either.”

“It’s my fault it didn’t stop.” It’s not self-pitying, the two of them got past that a long time ago. This is something a lot more bitter, and lot more volatile. “He had that shot coming. And I’m damn glad he’s dead.”

“It wasn’t worth it.” Daryl whispers, brings his hand out from under Rick’s grip to curl it into his hair. Rick shifts forward, hugs him round his waist, presses his face into his stomach and lays gentle kisses along it.

“Baby Brother, I’ll happily rot in one of these damn cells for the rest of my life.” Merle says, something so, so close to the weirdest feeling of resigned happiness clinging to his voice. “Cause maybe he wasn’t worth it, but you sure as hell are.”

The phone call cuts off, and Daryl doesn’t think he’s ever felt so loved by someone who believed themselves so incapable of it.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN! (dododo do, dodo do do do)! And by that I mean it's the last three chapters holy- (alternatively, I'm tired, scared and have spent too much time huddled in a corner writing this to mess it up now, so please don't hate me and tell me I haven't even if I have.)
> 
> 'The little one shot that could' would've been a more appropriate title for this fic I believe!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for all the continued support leading up to the end of this fic and all that has come previously! You're all amazing! (But you all know that :))
> 
> QUICK NOTE to say that STI's will be something discussed in this fic, and it is an issue that is addressed and dealt with and precautions are taken. However, I am no expert! Obviously if someone with an STI _receives_ unprotected oral sex the person giving it is at risk, but I could find no information of whether someone who (potentially at least) has an STI _giving_ oral sex could still give it to the person receiving it. There are obviously some that can be spread through mouth to mouth contact but these two have been kissing for a long time, so please don't hate me too much for this one!

Daryl’s exhausted by the time they get home, and he doesn’t even mind when Rick has to partway carry him into the apartment because they’ve done it once before and he knows Rick would gladly do it everyday for the rest of their lives.

It’s a struggle to get undressed, and something that might’ve felt romantic ends up quite sluggish. Rick still has the biggest smile on his face, pulling at Daryl’s unresponsive limbs until they shift enough to remove his clothes. He pushes Daryl just gently, laughs a little when Daryl does nothing more than let himself fall, rolling onto his stomach and giving Rick the most beautiful view of his naked back.

The scars don’t really register, because Daryl’s pain causes too much anger for something as serene as love and if they did Rick wouldn’t be able to undress himself, crawl onto the bed and plaster himself to Daryl’s back as easily as he does.

If there’s one life lesson Rick sticks to most keenly, it’s that there’s no point agonizing over things you can’t change, not when they make up the very person you wouldn’t change for the world.

Daryl grunts when he settles his whole weight down on top of him, draping himself completely over him like he’s trying to shield such a sight from the world, his and his alone. 

“I love you.” It’s a funny phrase to say, starts off so difficult and becomes so very easy. The first utterance is always sacred, bathed in secrecy and almost solipsistic. The feelings are still so central, so contained, and the words don't really start to integrate themselves to the other being until they spill from lips as easily as air. It’s difficult to believe you love someone entirely when it’s so hard to speak words that prove it, and those moments of deliberation make the whole thing more self-centered then anyone can believe love to be.

“Hmm.” Daryl shifts, brings his hands out from under him and rests both of them under his head, tilting it to look back at Rick. “You always say that.”

Rick laughs into his ear, and the pure sound of happiness makes Daryl prouder then the possibility of any passed test could ever hope to achieve. “What else am I gonna say?”

“You’re an English teacher.” Daryl hums, closes his eyes to the feeling of Rick against him, content enough to fall into blissful sleep but knowing unconsciousness couldn’t compare to the pleasure of staying awake “Words are supposed to be your thing.”

The laugh is gentler than the other, no less happy, but much more muted in the way it portrays it, choosing to blow air against Daryl’s neck rather than into his ear, sound so quiet it can’t hope to echo round the room and broadcast the humor, the happiness, the health.

“I adore you.” Rick says, some type of reverence to his voice that doesn’t weigh Daryl in expectation, the type of belief that lets him know he’s already reached divinity, that Rick would worship him no matter his actions if only because he once reached greatness. Daryl knows he isn’t going to budge from it either, wants to stay exactly where Rick has placed him, shining lights and smiling faces.

Rick has to huff a laugh against Daryl’s shoulder, surprisingly lost in terms of words that can refer to something so incommunicable. “I cherish you.”

Daryl snorts, and Rick’s forehead falls onto his back as they dissolve into laughter. It’s something Daryl never realized could happen, that intimacy could be so light-hearted, so fun. The two of them still feel like friends as much as they feel like more, and maybe that’s the reason it works so well. 

It offers Daryl comfort, the well known feel of Rick’s friendship helping to counterbalance the undiscovered territory of love, of relationships. It’s not scary, not like he thought it might be, because Rick is his friend and it’s not difficult to accept a change when nothing was really altered in the first place.

“I treasure you.” Rick says, and that only causes another wave of laughter following the dispersion of the first.

Daryl huffs, shifts back against Rick and moans when he doesn’t move. “That’s only changing one word.”

“You’re being greedy.” Rick chastises, playfully nips at Daryl’s ear and runs a hand upward under the base of his skull so he can feel the shiver it sends down Daryl’s spine.

Daryl glances back at him, narrows his eyes in a way that would look angry if it weren’t for the smirk settled upon his lips. “Ain’t I aloud to be?”

Rick would give him all the conformation in the world if he thinks his kiss bitten ‘yeses’ had the capacity to change that much between every utterance. As it stands, he knows they’d sound exactly the same, differentiation swept away with the tide. Rick hopes it will wash up somewhere useful, where someone so similar to the man he used to be is still trying to convince someone (as unconvinced of love as they are of anything else) of all the ways they feel for them.

“I’m devoted to you.” Rick tries, watches the smile spread on Daryl’s lips and counts that one as a win.

He kisses the very top section of Daryl’s spine, rests his lips there until Daryl shivers. The bone underneath shifts, so startlingly close to breaking skin but not sharp enough to do so. He wishes Daryl could see it so Rick could convince him that he isn’t jagged, that his cracks aren’t real enough to break his skin.

He smiles. “I’m infatuated with you.”

Daryl's breaths are coming just a little bit faster, and Rick doesn’t know where exactly the line between romance and sex blurred together and formed such an indescribably perfect whole, realizes he couldn’t care less so long as it never breaks apart again.

“I’m passionate about you.” Daryl moans when Rick mouths at the edge of his jaw, can feel the heat of Rick’s heavy cock trapped between them, painting Daryl’s skin in the type of lines he wouldn’t mind wearing forever.

Rick has to push himself up onto his forearms, give the both of them more room, uncertain as of yet whether Daryl wants to escape the heat or dive straight into it and swim in whatever magma feeling blisters the skin between them.

He rocks forward on his forearms, rests his lips against the shell of Daryl’s ear. “You mean the world to me.”

It’s quieter than the others, and Rick knows he’s found the perfect comparison to ‘I love you’, one individually fitted to Daryl himself, by the whole body shiver that racks his frame, the whine that reaches the highest point of his throat and chokes off into heavy breathing.

He watches Daryl lift his hips from the bed and knows exactly why he’s done it, reaches a hand round to press against the flushed head of Daryl’s cock before he pulls back, acknowledging and not at all averse to the whine that follows.

Rick keeps kissing along Daryl’s back, pulls off and crawls further down to grabs at Daryl’s hips, pressing them down into the bed just slightly, reveling in the groan that falls from Daryl’s lips, sinful sounds telling Rick just how good the friction is, just how much Daryl wants this. Daryl keeps moving his hips against the cotton even when Rick lets him go, and Rick can’t help groaning, tilting his head back and running a hand along the length of his cock, letting go when the feeling becomes too much and he has to shift back to Daryl.

Daryl’s hips still, gasp catching in his throat as Rick licks a stripe from his tailbone to the top of his neck, playfully pulling at the skin he grasps between his teeth, nipping all the way towards Daryl’s mouth and licking into open lips when he reaches them, curling a hand around Daryl’s jaw to get the angle he wants.

He sits back, links one arm around Daryl’s waist and another over his hips, pulling him back to sit on his lap. Every twitching, jerked movement rubs against Rick’s cock, his groans forced out between gritted teeth and doing nothing more than amplifying all of Daryl’s movements. When he looks over Daryl’s shoulder he has a hand around his cock, using his other hand to grab at Rick’s curls as he pulls his head around to kiss him, grinding against Rick in a way that makes him question whether the pleasure is making it hard to breathe, or if it’s just the way that Daryl’s sucking the air from his lungs.

Rick pulls away, taps just lightly at Daryl’s leg. “Up.” He says, smiles and keeps a hand on Daryl’s shoulders to keep him upright, wanting him on his knees, as opposed to falling forward onto his hands. He reaches around him, searching blindly through the bedside table until he finds the lube. He has to check it, both to see if it’s expired and if it actually is the lube. Rick isn’t going to lie and say it hasn’t been awhile.

Daryl sees what he’s reaching for, lifts a hand off of his cock and reaches for Rick’s wrist.

“Are you going to-?” 

“Not today.” Rick interrupts, places the lube down on the bed sheets and swirls his tongue against Daryl’s shoulder blade.

“Why?” Daryl whines, grinding back onto Rick’s cock like the pleasure’s going to undo all the preparation Rick put into every aspect of this, every single consideration he’s ever had for Daryl’s comfort, his health and the all-important incorporation of giving him what he wants, unless Rick knows it directly contradicts what he needs.

“You mean the world to me.” Rick says, echoed words from earlier conversations blending well with the atmosphere, the panted breathing and fractured moans. “That means I have all the time in the world to cherish this.”

“But I need-” Daryl trails off, leans his head back into Rick shoulder. The arch of his back reminds Rick of architecture, and it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“I know.” Rick soothes, runs a hand down Daryl’s chest and absentmindedly circles his nipple. “There are lots of things we can do.”

“Please, Rick.” Daryl’s back arches even further, and Rick has to press the hand hovering above his chest against it to stop him hurting himself.

“You don’t have to beg.” Rick says, runs his hand down Daryl’s ribs to his cock, trailing a gentle finger over it. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Daryl turns his head to Rick, glowers at him with entirely too much love in his eyes to pull off anger. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that sweetheart.” Rick says, watches the way Daryl’s eyes soften, the frown lines on his forehead smoothing themselves out before Rick can reach over and ease them from it. “Not yet.” Daryl doesn’t argue, both of them know this goes both ways, both of them have enough understanding of pain to never purposefully inflict any onto each other. Rick isn’t the only one who’s scared of becoming something he’s not. “What else do you want?”

Daryl trails a hand to the one Rick’s resting on his hip, squeezes it in an odd mix of reassurance and impatience.

“Touch me.” Daryl says instead, placing a hand down onto the bed beside him and rolling his head forward off of Rick’s shoulder, watching Rick wrap a sure hand around his cock and stroke from root to tip. 

Rick keeps the pace steady, kisses along Daryl’s bicep, his shoulder, the fine hairs that just trail down his neck. Daryl’s still on his knees, a hand on one of Rick’s own legs, spread out in front of him and bordering Daryl’s own and another reaching back past Rick and resting on the bed sheets, trying to keep himself steady when his legs tremble. Rick would think to move him, but it’s excitement more than exhaustion, and when Daryl shifts a hand back over his own shoulder to grip Rick’s hair, both of them know that he doesn’t want to move.

He’s writhing back against Rick, and both of them groan at the rhythmic impact of Rick’s cock against the lower edge of Daryl’s tailbone.

“Rick.” Daryl gasps, drawn out and high, trailing off into a groan that’s strangely low in comparison. “More, please.”

Rick slides his hand up and off Daryl’s cock, shushes his whine gently and reaches across him for the lube. He nudges Daryl over, encouraging him to roll onto his back and Rick can’t quite get enough air into his lungs when he does. His hair's falling across his forehead, eyes half lidded and shining and his legs fall open from where they had kneeled. He blushes when he catches Rick looking, still doesn’t look away from him though and Rick thinks he’s so beautiful, all playful and bashful and his.

And God, he looks like temptation himself, sin spread across the sheets.

Rick shifts forward himself, on his knees between Daryl’s spread thighs, running his hand over his own cock when the sight sends jolts of pleasure down to it. He pulls Daryl’s hips just a little further down, grabbing one of the pillows behind Daryl’s head and tapping his thigh so he’ll lift them up. The blush hasn’t quite faded from Daryl’s cheeks, his neck, and Rick can’t resist the urge that pulls him forward to lick a long line around the jagged edge where pink fades into white.

Daryl tangles a hand into his hair, pulls his head up for a kiss. His arms come up around Rick’s neck, his legs bent and falling open at each side of his thighs and Rick kisses him like he wants to _be_ Daryl. Closer than skin on skin, past ribs and muscle and nerves right to his heart, where he can tangle their blood vessels together and never part them again.

Rick pulls back, and untangling himself from Daryl’s arms is something he never wants to do, something as difficult for Daryl as it is for him. He reaches a hand across for the lube, leaves it open once he has two fingers prepped. He isn’t planning on going any further than two, certainly isn’t planning on going any further than his fingers, but it’s always good to be prepared.

“You okay?” Rick asks, trailing the fingers of his other hand down past Daryl’s cock, running a gentle finger down the cleft of his ass.

“Yeah.” Daryl pants, rocks back onto Rick when he presses the lubbed finger to his hole. “What about you?”

“I’m fine.” Rick says, rubs his finger in gentle circles, shushing Daryl and running a careful hand up his flank, pushing his legs just a little bit wider apart. Daryl sighs, relaxes and Rick puts just the slightest bit of pressure on him. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“I’m not glass.” Daryl gasps, broken around hitched noises and a high whine when Rick’s finger slides in, moving carefully until his middle finger’s up to the knuckle in tight heat. 

“You’re human.” Rick whispers, eyes fixed on the sight of Daryl’s bared neck, his head tilted back into the pillows, eyes shut and mouth open as Rick gently grinds his finger into him. He crooks it just so to press on the little bundle of nerves there, heart damn near skipping a beat at Daryl’s choked off moan. “Much more precious than glass.”

Daryl has one hand tangled in the sheets above him, the other reaching out to Rick and Rick doesn’t have a hope of resisting the invitation to twine their hands together. His fingers moving easily, Daryl’s body relaxing with every push and clenching around him every time he pulls away, like even instinctively he doesn’t want Rick to leave him. 

“Another?” He asks, gently pulling his middle finger out to press his forefinger beside it, nudging both of them at Daryl’s entrance, circling it and patting alternatively. 

Daryl just nods, writhes his hips against Rick’s fingers and bites his lip, cock hard and twitching against his stomach. The two fingers slide in easily enough, any tensions soothed away by Rick as soon as it has the chance to form. If it was in any way mental, he’d have stopped by now, but as it stands it’s nothing but physicality, Daryl’s body’s natural response to stimulation.

“Rick!” Daryl cries, circling his hips against Rick’s hand, fingers just nudging into his prostate on every push, curling just slightly as the leave. Daryl’s cock is leaking pre-cum onto his stomach, his hand crushing Rick’s in the most delicious way and the look on his face makes Rick’s heat beat and cock throb all at the same time. It’s too much, and Rick can’t help leaning over Daryl to kiss him, lifting their joint hands so they rest by the side of his head. 

“God, you’re beautiful.” Rick says, watching the blush burn brighter onto Daryl’s cheeks, the hand in the sheet falling down to cover his eyes with his arm. 

Rick lets go of his hand, just momentarily, tugs carefully at the arm covering Daryl’s eyes and moves it down his chest to his cock, wrapping his own around Daryl’s before leaving him there, pushing back into Rick’s hand and up into his own as Rick’s spare grabs his and clings.

Daryl breath speeds up, every exhale closer to a whine than an actual breath, and it’s only as Rick’s fingers push in, curl into his prostate and start to rub against it that those whines form substance and transcend themselves into words. 

“Please Rick!” Daryl grinding back onto Rick's hand, moving his hips in tiny little circles. “I need to, I need-”

Rick kisses him, open mouthed and messy, inhaling Daryl’s groans and exhaling his own. Daryl pulls away, head thrown back into the pillow as he shouts and Rick feels him clench around his fingers as he comes, holding onto Rick’s hand like a lifeline and rolling his head back down to pant against his mouth. 

He hisses as Rick pulls his fingers out, oversensitive as he jerks his cock just lightly in the wake of his orgasm, looking up at Rick with such hooded eyes, shadows unable to hide the love within them.

Rick groans as he shifts back from Daryl, cock still hard and red with a think bead of pre-cum working its way down the shaft. He’s only just bought up a hand to deal with it as he’s pushed back, landing on his back with a thump and lengthening his legs out from beneath him. Shaky legs straddle his knees, Daryl bending forward and bracketing Rick’s hips with his hands, hot breath on such sensitive skin making his own catch in his lungs.

He knows better than to ask Daryl if he really wants this, knows enough now to recognize the signs. Daryl’s looking up at Rick like he’s the sun, the stars, the empty endless space between and Daryl reaches a hand upwards to hold Rick’s briefly, running his thumb over the too pale band where a wedding ring once sat. Rick thinks about it often, not the absence of the last but a re-occurrence of another. He knows it wouldn’t happen for such a long time, that the idea will stay as nothing but absent minded wishes for a long while, but he looks down at Daryl and sees the earth, the ocean, the life that encircles it all and envelops it and knows he’d give away every inch of his own territory to encroach onto Daryl’s.

Daryl takes the head of his cock into his mouth, unwinds his hand from Rick’s and wraps it around the shaft, licking into the slit before closing his lips and bobbing his head. Pulling off every once in a while to place such tender kisses, such decadent moans falling from his own lips as he licks a stripe up from Rick’s balls to the head and starts all over again. 

Rick can’t help but rest a hand onto his head, just loosely, worried about offending him with the grip. Daryl just moans, encouraged, pushing more of Rick’s cock into his mouth until Rick has to groan, the feel of Daryl’s throat as it spasms around the head too much to take.

“Daryl.” Rick pants, watches as Daryl pulls himself all the way off and dives straight back down, lips blood red and glossy from saliva. “I’m gonna-”

Daryl doesn’t heed the warning, keeps going until he can feel Rick’s cock jerk, balls pulling tight against his body and the groan Daryl hears is the most beautiful thing he ever has. He’d pulled back enough to catch Rick’s cum in his mouth, easier to swallow when it isn’t chocking you.

The low moan Rick makes when he sees Daryl pull up, notices the way he swallows is sinful and Daryl can’t resist crawling up to his lap so Rick can chase the taste of himself.

It’s a chaste kiss, and Daryl practically collapses onto Rick when they pull back, legs still either side of his hips and arms tucked into his own chest, head curled into the hollow of Rick’s throat and watching the way his windpipe works to give him enough air. It’s peaceful, quiet, nothing but reveling in the want of each other without being interrupted by the overwhelming need to get closer.

“How did it feel?” Rick asks, regaining enough of his mobility to trace abstract patterns onto Daryl’s back.

“Felt right.”

“That’s what you always say.” Rick quips, a little sad he didn’t properly appreciate the feel of Daryl nuzzling into his neck when he had the chance, mourns it when he moves away.

Daryl’s glaring at him, both hands resting on his stomach and a smirk settled onto his lips. It’s probably one of Rick’s favorite emotions next to Daryl’s happiness, because his playfulness, the way it’s mixed with such an overwhelming array of other emotions is such a beautiful example of Daryl’s’ new-found diversity towards feeling.

The punch to his shoulder is halfway expected, and the grunt it shocks out of him is half some brand of his own playful side and half very real. Sometimes Rick really doesn’t think Daryl realizes how much upper body strength he has, even with how often Rick worships the muscle there.

“I love you.” Rick croons.

“Love you too.” It’s mildly grumpy, a little amused, but mostly loving. That in itself makes Rick smile.

The next day is test day and for all the relaxation in the world the muscles Rick worked so studiously hard to pleasure were panicked the next day, tense and jittery. His leg kept bouncing, hitting the underside of the glove box with every jump and Rick has to reach across and stop him far too many times, ends up resting a hand just above his knee for the whole ride, only moving it to change gear. He has to let go when they pull up to the school, for obvious reasons that don’t make it any less annoying.

They’re as early as they usually are, and Rick leads Daryl straight to his classroom, only stopping for brief greetings with Carol as they pass her on her way to the bench. 

Slipping into the classroom is easy enough, even more so when Rick realizes no one from his homeroom is here yet. He sits Daryl down onto the edge of his bench, clears a bundle of elastic bands off of the desktop and into the drawer, preventing the very unlikely case that Daryl decides to take a massive jump away from all his progress and take up some of Rick’s back habits. 

When Rick walks round to face him he isn’t exactly panicking, but he has the most lost look on his face, searching and searching through all the information Rick knows he’s learnt. He looks so sure that something’s missing, that if he doesn’t check through it every couple of minutes something will have disappeared and the rest will follow to leave him stranded in the test. His lip's bleeding and Rick’s movement to wipe the blood away is purely instinctual. 

“You’re gonna be fine Darlin’.” Rick says, coming to stand in front of Daryl. He only uses the endearment after he’s doubled checked the closed door, double checked that no one’s here.

Daryl smiles. “That’s a new one.”

“What?”

“You ain’t never called me Darlin’ before.” Daryl says, smile turning into a smirk like he started adapting to his new found ease of expression ages ago, and Rick’s only now catching up with the sight of it. “You’re getting more creative.”

“Well, you did ask me to.” Rick says, flicks at Daryl’s knee to get him to shift over, sitting himself down on the edge of the desk beside him.

Daryl turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed in just the smallest hint of confusion. “How do you even find it so easy to do everything I ask?”

“I love you.” Rick says, eyes flickering to the door despite his best intentions.

“What about if I fail?” Daryl asks, and there’s something so expectant in his voice, very well hidden, but noticeable none the less.

“I’ll love you just as much, if not more.” If that’s even possible Rick thinks, looks back over to Daryl and sees the same confused look still painting premature lines onto his forehead. “Because I know you’ll keep trying.”

Daryl shrugs. “Trying isn’t everything.”

“But those that try the hardest should get what they deserve.” Rick says, tilts Daryl to face him just slightly. “And you deserve everything.”

It’s the chastest of kisses, barely any contact and something in Rick knows it’s a bad idea before he even does it. It doesn’t change the fact that he gets lost in Daryl, as he always does, the endless tide washing over you and leaving you breathless. That’s probably why he doesn’t notice someone’s at the door straight away, and by the time it’s opening and Rick’s managed to pull away Hershel looks like he saw everything.

Daryl looks shocked, and he opens his mouth to say something but none of the words fall from his lips, not wanting to be forced into this situation any more than Rick does. Rick turns to look at him, looks back to Hershel and he’s sure this is it, sure he’s going to be fired with a few hefty biblical references and be unable to get a new job, unable to teach the students he has now, unable to look after Daryl. 

All in all, Hershel doesn’t look angry, and Daryl and Rick both wonder if it’s the calm before the storm, Daryl looping his hand into Ricks in the space between them, safe from what could be judging eye by the edges of Rick’s jacket. It means a lot to Rick, because even if he loses everything he’ll still have Daryl, and that means his fall from grace will be cushioned by wings and water.

Hershel just stands for a long while, glancing between the two of them. The silence is awkward, but none of them can quite manage to find enough voice to fill it.

In the end, and Rick’s honestly sure he’s never been prouder of him, it’s Daryl who, at least tentatively, finds his feet the quickest.

“It wasn’t what it-” He starts, trails off like he lost all the courage he had. Rick squeezes his hand regardless, because Daryl saying anything is a lot more than Rick has to offer right now.

“What isn’t?” Hershel asks, looking so honest to God confused that Rick’s worry turns to confusion in itself.

He tilts his head, looks towards Daryl and back up to Hershel. “What?”

“I just walked in here for a chat.” Hershel says, walks over to the desk and pretends he doesn’t see the way the two of them fumble to unclasp their hands, drag them away from each other with faces that betray how much they hate the missing contact.

Rick shakes his head, looking as resigned as Hershel can remember him looking. “There’s no way you didn’t see-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Rick.” Hershel laughs, places a hand on either of their shoulders and squeezes them encouragingly. “I didn’t see a thing.”

Daryl huffs out a laugh, the sound practically shocked out of him. Rick echoes one of his own and sooner or later, once Hershel’s own laughter had joined into the symphony they realize that Hershel knows exactly what’s going on, that this is his blessing. It makes Rick so overjoyed, especially with the level his own mind is berating him for being stupid enough to kiss Daryl in a classroom.

“You’ve got a test today?” Hershel asks Daryl, once they’ve calmed down from their laughter, Daryl’s hand just nudging against Rick and the both of them watching in awe as Hershel smiles at the sight.

“Yes Sir.” 

“What have I told you about calling me Hershel son?” Hershel moves forward to one of the students chairs, props himself down onto the desk in a mirrored position of the way Daryl and Rick are sitting. “At least when no one’s around.”

“Hershel.” Daryl says, smiles just a little as his eyes flick to Rick and back again.

“You’re gonna do just fine.” Hershel says, reaches forward to tap the edge of Daryl’s arm when he bites at his lip, smiles at the way Rick does exactly the same thing. “And stop looking so worried, I may be a Christian, but you see an awful lot working at a high school and the words of Christ aren’t quite suitable for every modern day situation.”

“You’re the principal though.” Daryl says, leans slightly closer towards Rick like he needs the comfort of connection.

“And I didn’t see a thing.” Hershel says, winks good naturedly at the both of them, turns to face the clock on the wall as he does. “You best be off to homeroom Daryl.”

Daryl doesn’t argue with that, picks up his bag and untangles himself from Rick’s side, turning back once he reaches at the door and smiling back to both of them. His eyes linger on Rick, and Hershel isn’t sure he can remember being so young and in love. He can only remember his own later life experiences with his wife, and he wishes he could remember the two, if only to really find out if love strengthens or disintegrates over time.

“Hershel-” Rick starts, once the door’s closed behind Daryl. He looks like he’s expecting some façade to drop, and the uncertainty makes Hershel sad.

“I told you to look after him Rick.” Rick ducks his head, must think that sound like chastisement. Hershel shakes his head and smiles, catches Rick’s attention enough to draw his gaze back to his own. “The way I see it, you’re doing a damn good job.”

“Thank you.” Rick says, heartfelt, sincere, every appreciating emotion rolled into one.

“Thank _you_.” Hershel echoes. “For helping him, he reminds me a lot of myself.”

Rick smiles. “He’ll grow up to be an excellent man then.”

“That he will.” Hershel says, mirroring smile so wide on his own face that it hurts the corners of his mouth. “He’s got you by his side after all. I can’t think of a better teacher than Rick Grimes.”

It’s later that day, when the test is done (and if Rick’s eyes had been focused on Daryl leaning over his desk and scribbling furiously the whole time, no one acted like the noticed), and the panic normally induced by it has failed to catch Daryl in its clutch, that the both of them try their best to sort out some variation of dinner for Carl. 

They try pizza, and even though the whole thing is a mess and Daryl has enough flour in his hair to look like some strange variation of a blond, and Rick has had so much returning flour lobbed into his short beard to make him look a lot older then he actually is, they manage to get them somewhat prepared and in the oven before Carl gets there.

It all feels so domestic, and Rick can’t help sweeping past Daryl, grabbing him around the waist and hoisting him up onto the counter, fitting himself snugly between open thighs like he’s their corresponding puzzle piece. He kisses Daryl there, flower falling off of the both of them like confetti and lips tasting dryer than usual but no less delicious.

It’s Shane who drops Carl and Lacy off, and there are some moments of unspoken agreement between him and Rick, when Shane’s eyes alight on Daryl and Rick realizes exactly what it means that Shane’s here to drop his son off. They both love each other, always did, probably always will and although it was flawed to start with and the whole thing's faded, neither of them could bear to see the other unhappy. There’s a moment of silence, Rick in his apartment and Shane stood in the hall where both of them just acknowledge what could have been, what never will be.

They’ve both moved on, and both of them are happy, if in nothing else, then in the fact that the other isn’t alone. It doesn’t feel like the end, because there friendship has always been the strongest thing about them, even when they walked the dangerous line between friends and lovers, failed to fall a certain way and stay there. It just feels like loose ends have been tied up, like the longing's gone but the love remains, as brothers and as friends.

Shane steps forward to hug Rick, and Rick hugs him back. It’s the most brotherly they can remember being since they were young, not a hint of anything but platonic affection. 

In all honesty it’s the happiest both of them have ever been.

The night is spent with Carl and Lacy, curled up together on the couch. Daryl sits beside Rick now, no need for the barrier and Carl smiles as much as they smile at him, at each other. Daryl’s never felt so blissful in his entire life, lowers a hand to Lacy and hasn’t a single worry for her biting him. They’re family after all, and family don’t hurt each other.

Daryl thinks it’s the best moment of his life, sitting on the couch surrounded by his family, people who love him and want him to be happy. It’s the most relaxed he’s ever been, and when they put Carl to sleep he actually dares to step into the room, leans down to give the kid a hug and doesn’t feel bad about being there, doesn’t feel redundant.

That moment is overshadowed, replaced by that which follows, lying in bed with Rick against his back, hands entwined over his stomach. There’s no expectation for anything, no nightly ritual. For once, Daryl doesn’t mourn the routine.

These moments should last, remain fixed as the best for a lot longer than they do, but when Monday rolls around Daryl realizes something very important. It’s as Rick’s hands out the tests, stops at Daryl’s with a secret smile and places an honest to God B grade down onto his table. Daryl feels like crying, but he holds it back, still so convinced there’s no place for tears in happiness. 

Maggie’s smiling at him, as is Glenn and when he looks over Rick’s positively beaming. It’s not directed at him, but Daryl knows it’s for him, and all in all that makes it better.

It’s a struggle not to tackle Rick, to wait until all the other students have filed out of the room. Rick meets him halfway, once the door’s closed and the echoed sound of footsteps is fading into the silence. They hold each other tightly, not to hold anything together so much as encourage it to stay exactly where it is.

“We’re gonna be okay.” Daryl says, and there isn’t a hint of questioning in his voice.

Rick smiles, whispers conformations into his ear that blend with compliments, with caresses, with care.

Daryl realizes it’s going to keep getting better, and it’s the best feeling in the world.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end! It's almost sad, but I do need to catch up on sleep, so in a way it's good! :)
> 
> Quick reminder to everyone that THIS IS NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER! I know I said the next one was an epilogue but I'm not sure it actually counts as one! It's a full length chapter, with a small snippet following this one and then the majority based a year from now! (I know, very cliche, it's also *spoiler* Daryl's graduation, which is even more cliche)! Please remember that if this doesn't seem as happy as I promised (it is happy, just not quite sunshine and rainbows yet) it's because that comes along in the next chapter!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me on this story! You're all the best! 
> 
> This chapter is very much about Daryl letting go (with some smut) the next is fluff and fun and family, so I hope you can enjoy both! :)

The feel of passing hands Daryl pride like photographs. 

They rest in his mind like images placed in an album, stuck and secured next to all the accumulated memories of family and friends.

He doesn’t need it right now, and while that doesn’t mean he fools himself into thinking he’ll never need it, it’s nice to feel that momentary accomplishment. He knows that when things get hard, when the stresses of life build up to a point that seems so far out of reach, Daryl can remind himself of snapshot serenity and bring everything back down to resting pace.

It feels like insurance against his own anxiety, and Daryl’s never been more grateful for all the people who showed him the benefits of prevention, those of care even more so.

Originally, it had made him feel like a charity case, and he’d hated the dependency that brought. It was a difficult but very worthwhile journey to realize that care was not directly linked to charity, that although they traveled hand in hand, their connection did not equate to some abstract sense of pity.

It’s Rick who showed him that. Rick who's sat beside him now with hands entwined and matching smiles. The main benefactor. 

He’s leaning back on the couch, head tilted down over the back of it and eyes looking across at Daryl with the smallest hint of a smile on his face. Daryl can’t even think of resisting that look, the quiet contentment that’s just loud enough to reach him without overpowering the whole room. His beauty is enticing, evoking, makes Daryl want to do sinful things that shouldn’t be applied in the presence of something so holy. 

Rick’s lips are parted ever so slightly, pink tongue overshadowed by the deep red pigment of his mouth and Daryl wants to see if those lips get dimmer, when blood rushes to other parts of Rick’s body, or when Daryl bites down on his neck and sucks marks onto the skin. 

Daryl crawls over to Rick’s side of the couch, flops down onto his back with his head in Rick’s lap. Hands rise to shift through his hair and Daryl can’t halt the soft moan that falls from his lips. The way he licks them is more intentional, wanting Rick’s attention, craving his touch and he knows Rick’s thinking of the last time they were together, can imagine that his thoughts are just as sinful as Daryl’s own.

Rick thinks Daryl’s an angel, can practically paint the wings onto his back and watch him fly. It makes Daryl wonder if Rick thinks he’s ruining something holy too, thoughts encompassed with the same type of blissful blasphemy.

As lovely as the feeling of Rick’s hand in his hair is and as interesting a pattern his other is managing to trail down his chest, Daryl sits himself up, straddles Rick’s lap and presses their foreheads together, rolling down until he can catch Rick’s lips between his own and inhale the groan that follows. Rick’s hands settle low onto his hips, stroke the slither of skin exposed by Daryl’s rising shirt. It leaves Daryl’s hands free to tangle into Rick’s hair, feel them get caught in those curls and realize that he never wants to pull them free.

He pulls back from Rick’s lips, the pop of parting flesh audible in the room. Daryl rolls his hips just slightly against Rick’s, careful of the abrasive material on such sensitive skin, sucking Rick’s hiss into his own lungs so he can treasure it when breath escapes him. His forehead comes to rest against Rick’s again, bright eyes completely consumed by the most beautiful kind of shadows. Rick’s hands trail up his sides (prompt shivers that makes his breath shake against ruby red lips) and cups both of them on either side of his neck, strokes over the hollow of his throat with his thumb.

“Are you looking for congratulations?” Rick asks, whispered in the space between them like their lips are confessionals.

“Yes.” Daryl says, strokes his hand down Rick’s chest to play with the buttons there. “Then you can fuck me.”

Rick looks at him for a long time, and there’s something there that’s just the slightest bit uncertain. Daryl finds it both heartwarming and completely unnecessary and maybe if they hadn’t already done things this would seem like a big deal but right now it sounds exactly the same as the way Aaron had regarded love.

Nothing frightening about the _‘smallest step in the world.’_

“What are you still waiting for?” Daryl asks, whisper soft and breathy, lungs yet to completely calm down, studying Rick’s eyes like he can _find_ the answer if he only tries hard enough.

It’s the smallest movement of the eyes Daryl’s studying, moving past him and aligning on the satchel Rick had thrown onto the counter, the test papers rest in there, recollected for moderation to be handed out again on Monday and everything in Daryl clicks together and understands.

“I’m not begging you, I’m not scared.” He stresses, bringing his own hands up to cup Rick’s cheeks. “I passed.” 

Rick smiles, a proud little thing. “Yes you did.”

“I want this.” Daryl says, slow as can be to really drive the message home, knowing Rick’s only worried about him. “It feels right.”

“I love you.” Rick smirks, chuckling as Daryl rolls his eyes.

“We’re so inventive.” Daryl laughs, scrunches his face up when Rick kisses the tip of his nose. They dissolve off into laughter, and it’s probably the fact that the situation is capable of humor that makes up Rick’s mind. Daryl can’t help but smile when he sees the acceptance. “I love you too.” 

The hand Daryl has on Rick’s shirt shifts, pushes the first button from it's corresponding hole and moves the fabric to the side. He’s about to keep going, maybe duck his head down and worship Rick like he deserves, but Rick’s hands rise to catch his own and hold them in the space between them.

“Not here.” Rick says, presses a hand to Daryl’s cheek. “There’s no way I’m doing this on the couch, not the first.”

“You’re such a romantic.” Daryl huffs, rolls his eyes in the hope that Rick doesn’t see how much he loves everything that Rick is, that he’d take all the romance in the world if Rick was the one giving it to him.

“We haven’t even started yet sweetheart.” Rick says, kisses the skin of Daryl’s neck before pushing him up and off the couch, standing himself and grabbing Daryl’s hand to drag him through into the bedroom.

As soon as the bedroom door closes Rick pushes Daryl back against it, such a gentle movement for something that’s usually so frantic. Clothes are shed much the same way, just that hint of want echoing out over the overwhelming need to do this properly.

Daryl shifts his way up the bed when they reach it, resting on his back just below the pillows with his knees bent and spread. It takes Rick a minute to join him, overwhelmed (as he often is), by the beautiful picture Daryl makes. It’s when Daryl’s hand rises from the bed, reaches towards him in a way that’s impossible to ignore that Rick crawls onto the bed on top of Daryl. The hand grasped in his own is moved down beside Daryl’s head, his other moving up to grasp Rick’s and following much the same pattern. 

Daryl looks spread out and gorgeous, and even though Rick had worried he might look vulnerable he looks anything but uncomfortable.

Parted lips meet, kiss so languidly they barely close them and Rick reaches to the bedside table, grasps the lube he’d left there yesterday as well as a condom from a pack he'd bought the other day and places them on the bed beside them. He pulls away, drags himself from Daryl’s clinging arms but keeps their hands lopped together, resting in the space between them while Rick glances over every inch of Daryl. He’d feel like he was encroaching on unspecified territory, but Daryl’s doing exactly the same to him and the smile thrown his way when their eyes meet is playful.

Rick’s handed a pillow before he even considers reaching for one, and Daryl smirks at him as he raises his hips from the covers, feet flat on the ground and cock bobbing against his stomach while Rick places it beneath him. Rick shifts Daryl just a little further, so he can part his cheeks with his hands and see his hole. The beautiful blush reappears and Daryl’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes close, groaning as he grinds down against the air.

Rick reaches for the lube, unable to resist giving Daryl anything he wanted. Daryl’s eyes snap open at the sound, watching Rick coat three of his fingers and dropping a hand down to his cock, stoking it slowly as his breathing increases.

“Relax for me.” Rick says, circling his middle finger around Daryl’s entrance, pressing in just lightly when he feels Daryl breathe out. It's an easier slide, Daryl somewhat accustomed to the preparation after the last time. He should be much more used to a touch like this, with the amount of –

Rick’s not going to think about it, pain has no place here, just as the past has no influence over this present moment.

The slide of a second finger makes Daryl’s back arch just slightly, Rick’s fingers teasing the edge of his prostate until he’s whining, lifting his hips up into his own hand and lowering them onto Rick’s fingers. He catches a good angle, just a quick brush against his prostate, but it’s enough to tip Daryl’s head back into the pillows, his hair falling around him in waves as he whines.

“Another?” Rick asks, when the muscle feels loose enough to take it.

“Yeah, yeah, please.” Daryl gasps, rolling his head up to look at Rick, pink lips parted to gasp in air, blue eyes begging in a way that doesn’t feel wrong, no fear present to tinge something beautiful.

The third is a little harder, but Rick’s patient, a hand placed over Daryl’s stomach rubbing encouraging circles over the skin. He knows Daryl isn’t a virgin, knows it all too well, but it’s his first time with someone who wants to give him nothing but pleasure, and Rick’s determined not to mar that with excess pain.

A steady rhythm against Daryl’s prostate encourages his muscles to relax, the hand on his cock practical limp with the pleasure. Rick keeps going, even when Daryl says he’s ready, wanting to get him as relaxed as he could possibly be, as ready for this as he can get him.

It’s only when Daryl’s hand disappears from view, snakes down Rick’s chest and wraps first a condom and then a lubed hand around the length of his cock that Rick’s gaze moves from his hole up to his eyes. The both of them breathing heavily, Rick’s fingers moving as smoothly in Daryl’s body as Daryl’s hand is on his cock.

“I’m ready.” Daryl pants, rolls his hips in encouragement and bites his lip when Rick’s fingers curl. “I want _you_.”

Rick tilts his head down, removes his fingers and rests his cheek against the hollow of Daryl’s hip, watches his cock jerk as his air blows over it. “The things you do to me.”

Daryl’s hand winds into his hair, pulls his head up just a little bit. “I love you.” He says, and Rick can’t resist the urge to crawl up Daryl’s body, kiss the lips that spill such sinful sounds and say such heavenly words.

“I love you too.” He says, when he pulls back and can see that Daryl has the most serene look on his face, blush fading to a cherry blossom pink against his skin.

He shifts Daryl just slightly, ends up adding another pillow to get the angle he wants. Daryl’s breath hitches when he feels Rick press against him, but there’s no tension in the sound, none in his body and Rick leans over him as he pushes in, chases Daryl’s moan back into his mouth and lets them play fight over possession of the noise.

Rick stops once the head’s in, feels the slight tightening of Daryl’s muscles as they get used to feeling, the odd pleasure of being so full. It’s such a fluttering feeling, and if Rick were any less of a man he wouldn’t be able to hold out, as it is, he’d stay on the brink of ecstasy his whole life to give Daryl wave after wave of pleasure. 

“Relax, relax.” Rick hushes, Daryl lifting an arm to loop it round his neck, pulling him down so he can bury his face in Rick’s neck. “You’re doing so well sweetheart, relax for me.”

Daryl takes a deep breath, breathes out again and the muscles relax enough for Rick to push in, feeling Daryl’s panted gasps against his skin. He rests again once he’s buried to the hilt, stays still until Daryl has some more control over his breathing, until every breath his takes makes him whine at the feeling of Rick inside him.

“Move.” Daryl says, rolls his hips just a little. “Please Rick.”

Rick has no trouble doing whatever Daryl wants, holding himself up with one hand and wrapping the other around Daryl’s cock, erection flagging just slightly from penetration but responding to the movement of Rick’s hips and his hand as they work in tandem.

Daryl has an arm around Rick’s neck and an arm around his back, legs wrapping round the backs of his thighs and giving him leverage to push back onto Rick’s thrusts. He goes to kiss Rick, but it’s less a kiss and more wordless noises of pleasure exchanged between their open mouths. Daryl’s whines are beautiful, and they make Rick’s cock twitch inside him, lets him know that he’s the one doing this to Daryl, causing this pleasure.

Daryl himself shudders every time Rick groans, and something tells him he’s thinking the exact same thing.

Rick leans down, buries his face into Daryl’s shoulder, open lips dragging across his skin with every groan. Daryl’s panting into his ear, chocked off, whispered renditions of his name present in every exhale and Rick can feel himself so close to the edge already, overwhelmed by Daryl’s heat and lips and noises.

“I need to-” Daryl starts, breaks off into a fractured moan. It’s enough to let Rick know he’s just as close to the edge, makes him speed up him hips and circle them every time he’s balls deep.

His hand moves faster and Daryl’s body adopts that beautiful twitching movement the closer to orgasm he gets, overstimulated muscles begging for a release from such pleasurable tension. 

In the end, Daryl’s silent as he comes, open mouth attempting to broadcast what could have been a moan when he chokes off into silence, cock spurting over Rick’s hand and the clenched muscles of his body driving Rick to his own orgasm, releasing into the condom with a groan that he buries into Daryl’s hair.

It’s difficult to part, and the feeling of Rick pulling free from his body makes Daryl moan. Rick pulls off the condom, ties it and throws it into the bin at the side of the bed, grabs a couple of tissues to clean Daryl up a little, reminds himself to drag them both into the shower before they go to sleep.

“Thank you.” Daryl says, rolling into Rick’s chest and mouthing at his collarbone.”

“For what sweetheart?”

“I never knew it could-” Daryl admits, shakes his head. “Well I knew, I just never-”

“I love you.” Rick says, when he realizes Daryl’s lost his words.

“I love you too.” Daryl says, eyelashes fluttering against Rick’s collarbone and lips moving tantalizingly over sensitive skin.

They never do get into the shower, but the sticky mess in the morning is worth it, if only because the whole situation makes Daryl laugh.

The laughs don’t quite leave Daryl, but they're much more controlled following a phone call from the company responsible for cremating his father. Rick’s happy to take him, leaves Daryl to get changed so he can make them both breakfast. It doesn’t disregard what happened last night, doesn’t make the feelings any less muted this morning. If anything, it just feels freeing, like the final ties hiding Daryl down have finally sprung free.

His Dad didn’t have a funeral in the end.

Merle paid out the last of his drug money to get him cremated, but it’s Daryl who has to pick up the ashes considering Merle got himself locked up again.

'Again' doesn’t seem right. 'Again' sounds too repetitive, too carbon copied for something so different. It’s petty drug charges compared to murder and there really isn’t enough comparison there for Daryl to add it to the formative timeline of Merle’s arrests.

Rick drives him to pick them up, comes in with Daryl to get the urn and doesn’t even say a word. Daryl’s glad for it, because a fear he’s overcome has no place with the ones that have been left behind and forgotten. They have to sit for a while, once Daryl’s got back into the car and is trying his best to think of what the hell he wants to do with the ashes now.

He doesn’t think the trailer’s a good place and he doesn’t want to taint his tranquil forest with the very epitome of all his stress. Most importantly, he doesn’t want to keep it, doesn’t want to look at it and remember everything Dad ever did, all he ever was, the things he never got the chance to be. He knows he shouldn’t feel sorry for Dad, knows the time for sympathy was near non-existent and had long past before the first time Dad ever laid a hand on him obliterated it. 

Daryl offers up a place tentatively, knows it’s further a field than Rick was probably anticipating. His feelings are just this side of turbulent, but Rick’s hand over his own calms him, reminds his waves to stop being so influenced by the moon when the sun sits right beside him.

“This the right place?” Rick asks, when they pull into something that isn’t quite a trailer park, but can’t really be classed as anything else.

Daryl nods, and they travel to the end of the road upon his instruction. Daryl sees bikes discarded in the middle of the road, a lot of them are familiar, hand me downs most likely and Daryl wonders if the kids he used to chase have their own now, if that’s why he recognizes the shade of blue on one, the chain on the other, the graffiti spread over all of them. 

They pull up to the front of his house, blackened wood and burnt bridges. It looks even worse than he remembers it and there are so many things he could tell Rick, so much he could say for nothing but talking about it.

“It’s my old house.” He explains instead, quick and simple with just the lingering touches of past pains. “Where Mom burned.”

“You wanna scatter them here?” Rick asks, not questioning Daryl’s judgement so much as confirming it.

“Mmmhmm.” 

Rick nods, licks over his lips and looks towards the house. “Can I come with you?”

“It’s unstable.” Daryl argues, half-hearted at best and mind more on Rick’s side of the argument than his own. “Dangerous.”

“That sounds like conformation to me.” Rick smiles, grabs Daryl’s hand and squeezes it before stepping out of the car.

Daryl himself has to take a little longer, rolls the urn between his hands and questions whether his overall lack of connection to it is a good thing or a bad thing. He supposes he never really had a reason to care about it all that much, not when it’s so dead, not when it always had been.

It’s still a ramshackle place, still half burnt and unstable, not enough richness in the land or in the community’s pockets to do anything about it. 

The house was never a two story building, and considering the state it’s in, Daryl’s glad at least one danger is eliminated from it. Walking into the house itself is surreal, not because it feels like stepping into the past, much more because it feels like some twisted establishment of ensuring his future. The biggest threat to Daryl had always been his parents, Dad coming in as top predator and Mom an uncertain, accidental second. 

Now that both of them are gone, his footsteps are both heavier and lighter, no longer afraid of the noise he makes, but not weighed down enough for it to ring quite as loudly as it once had.

He briefly glances into the living room as he passes it, scorch marks half way up the one wall and smoke residue clinging to all the others. Rick’s following just behind him, and Daryl thinks he can feel the softest brush of fingertips against his back. It doesn’t feel like Joe, feels a lot more like comfort when they necessity of such was unknown. Gentle and delicate, but so far from fragile. 

His Mom’s room doesn’t really class as one any more, not with the way the roof has caved in and the walls are little more than charred mortar. Either way, it’s the one Daryl heads to, Rick following behind him like his shadow, and Daryl’s sure he’s never before had one so bright. Their steps are steady, as certain as they’ve even been and Daryl isn’t sure whether that’s a testament to their relationship or just their individual achievements. 

It’s probably both, and something about individual unity makes him smile. 

Daryl doesn’t dawdle in Mom’s room, places Dad’s urn down on the floor and stares at it for just a moment, raising his eyes back up to lap once around the room before turning back to the door. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve stepped straight over the wall in front of him, reduced to little more than half a meter up from the ground. Daryl doesn’t owe his parents any respect, they never earned it and he never wanted to give it to them, but something about that seems like a disrespect to the house in general, and this place once made his life a little more bearable.

He didn’t scatter the ashes, doesn’t think that type of freedom is deserved. There’s something about his Dad remaining confined that settles him, even when that confinement is as much of a threat to Dad now as it ever was in life. 

There may be something, clinging to the edge of Daryl psyche, the one that’s so different it’s barely compatible to the one he’s made for himself now, that put Mom and Dad together on purpose. He can’t be sure whether it was spite, or some twisted sense of affection, the knowledge that once upon a time, before flames lapped at old photos and memories disintegrated with them, Dad and Mom had actually looked happy.

It was before Merle and Daryl were born, and that might have been the very reason for it.

Maybe they’d appreciate it. Maybe they wouldn’t. Daryl can’t say he cares much either way.

There’s something symbolic in both of them burning, and maybe a younger Daryl (the one with enough hate to start fires and reduce things to ashes himself) would think of hell. It’s not something he doesn’t contemplate, and he can’t say it’s not a suited ending to the people who made his life agonizing enough to think flames lapping at his skin would feel like redemption.

As it is, he thinks of weight. How heavy burdens must be to drag you to places so dark. That the both of them committed suicide doesn’t escape his notice, and Daryl knows the feeling of clinging to that edge, the equal power involved in pushing yourself either way. It lends him perspective on how bad their life must have been, when the edge felt so dreadful Daryl could barely contemplate the central feeling, suicide's most capacious point.

Him and Rick step into the car, sit quietly for a minute while Daryl watches the bikes from earlier be picked up by some gangly young boys. There’s no smaller child running behind them, gasping for breath and exhausted but so eager for acceptance. It makes him smile, because for once history isn’t quite repeating itself. 

“Do you want to go see your brother?” Rick asks, follows Daryl’s view of the boys. He doesn’t understand the reference of it, but he doesn’t question it.

Daryl sighs, reaches across for Rick’s hand and squeezes it. “I didn’t even think about it.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind.” Rick says, brings Daryl’s hand up to kiss the backs of his knuckles, smiling into the skin. “Thinking’s difficult when your thoughts are already so hectic.”

“Can you come with me?” Daryl asks, not sure whether it’s a good idea but accepting enough of anything that can spring forth from bad ones. After getting through so many bad situations and finding such a home in all the happiness you find on the other side, worry becomes just a little bit redundant.

“Of course I can.”

The drive is uneventful, longer than Daryl’s used to considering the distance they’d already traveled to visit the house and Daryl finds himself lulled into something so nearly approaching sleep by the steady rhythm of Rick’s thumb over the back of his hand.

He doesn’t dream, when he eventually sleeps, and even if he did he knows they wouldn’t have been bad ones. 

Rick rouses him with gentle kisses to his neck and when Daryl’s eyes blink open he realizes Rick’s literally had to partway climb over the center console to reach him. The laugh that startles itself out of him is echoed by Rick, and Daryl can’t help wrapping an arm around his neck to kiss him while he has the opportunity to. Daryl takes pity on Rick’s knees eventually, tries to untangle himself and realizes it’s impossible, not with the way his entire system practically entwines with Rick’s own.

“You sure you want me to come with you?” Rick asks, rests his elbow onto the steering wheel and looks across as Daryl.

“Yeah.” Daryl looks up towards the prison, glances down towards the clock and realizes they have a couple of minutes before they can even go in. “Bout time you met him.”

“Daryl Dixon.” Rick says, cocky little smirk working its way onto his lips. “Are you introducing me to the family?”

“You know my family.” Daryl’s smile is much more subtle and Rick’s own falls to the same level of muted compassion like it’s pupated by Daryl’s own emotions. “It was yours before it was mine.”

“You’re brother’s always welcome.” Rick says, his blink much slower than Daryl would’ve liked, blocking eyes that are too beautiful to be hidden from the world, even for the smallest of seconds.

“He killed someone.”

“He killed the man who hurt you.”

“That doesn’t excuse murder.” Daryl presses, raises both his eyebrows and shakes his head at Rick’s insistence.

Rick purses his lips, tilts his head just slightly to the side, following through with the motion until he’s facing the window. “Hmm.”

“What?” Daryl asks, narrows his eyes just a little bit.

“When I saw Philip, in the library.” Rick says, wraps both hands around the steering wheel, Daryl can see the tendons clench, would reach over to comfort them if Rick didn’t do so himself. “I wanted to kill him.”

“You didn’t though.” Daryl argues, thinking that maybe he should be thinking more thoughtfully over Rick’s admittance. Perhaps it should sound more like a warning than it does, but Daryl doesn’t feel like it’s intended for him, that any signs are procured towards other people. Daryl knows Rick wouldn’t hurt him, and though hurting others to prevent them hurting him might seem to run a little too close, Daryl see’s noting but the distance they’ve traveled together, the mutual trust they’ve achieved. 

“If there hadn’t been a witness I probably would have.” Rick admits, looks at Daryl as he does.

Daryl looks at him for a really long moment, blinks like the movement itself was startling, and then huffs.

“Fucking stupid ass, Alpha Male types.” He grumbles, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door. “Trying to protect my damn honor.” 

Rick laughs, and Daryl knows how important it is to judge someone’s perceived violence on the realism of their humor. That if their laugh sounds hollow, promises will fall flat. Rick’s laugh is heavy and light in the same breath, but it’s full of such a wonderful amount of substance and Daryl knows Rick’s promises are no less fulfilled.

Daryl stands in the car park with his hands hung low onto his hips, feigned impatience and raised eyebrows as he watches Rick get out of the car, drama dissolving into delight as he watches those bowed legs walk towards him like they’ve never considered any other direction.

The process of getting into the prison is largely the same as it’s always been, even with another person by his side. Daryl briefly mourns the lack of his customary cigarettes, wonders if Merle will be happy enough to see him anyway.

Daryl can remember the last time he was here, but it feels too long ago for him to preach disappointment, wallow in pity at Merle’s inability to stay out of trouble.

This time doesn’t seem so bad, maybe because in some weird way Merle was actually trying to stand up for him, rather than hide away under whatever mask of drugs he managed to get his hands on.

Or maybe it’s because Rick’s fingers are just gently drumming against his thigh, maybe even the fact that Rick’s there at all. It might just be Rick Grimes in general, because even if he wasn’t here Daryl would be more comfortable than any other visit.

When Merle actually walks in he’s quieter, more subdued than any of the times Daryl can remember. His eyes flick from Rick to Daryl, walking forward rather than sauntering, and Daryl’s pretty sure there’s the faintest hint of understanding in his eyes. That, and the lack of shouting, must hint at some form of acceptance.

“Who’s this baby brother?” Merle asks, slots himself down onto the table and rests his chained hands onto the surface, waits for the guards to lock him in.

“Rick Grimes.” Rick answers, once the guard has walked back out of hearing range. 

“And who is ‘Rick Grimes’ to you Daryl.” Merle ask, pointedly ignoring Rick and fixing his eyes complete on his brother.

It’s not a question Daryl can answer straight away, not with how many words spring to mind. Some of them are entirely too sappy for the conversation, others too crude and even more are too poetic. Merle doesn’t understand poetry, and Daryl doesn’t like the thought of physically assigning anything crude to Rick. In the end he chooses the only one Merle might have a hope in hell of recognizing. 

“Family.”

Merle rolls his tongue against the inside of his checks, looks off to the side and nods. It takes him a little while to gather his thoughts, and Daryl’s glad, if only because it means Merle’s actually thinking.

“You pick up that no good sonofabitch?” He asks, eyes lining up with Daryl’s again. Blue on blue and brotherly.

“I put Dad with Mom.” There’s no particular emphasis on Dad, no real reason for saying it instead of some derogatory nickname. Merle still looks at Daryl like he sees something in it, something Daryl didn’t intend to show.

“You think they’d like that?”

“They’re dead, it was their choice.” Daryl says, feeling Rick squeeze at his thigh reassuringly. The feeling makes him smile, and Merle looks momentarily confused before he follows Rick’s arm down under the table. His jaw clenches, but his eyes stay clear and Daryl knows that means everything will be okay. “They don’t get to like or dislike anything we do. Not anymore.”

“They didn’t to start with.” Merle grumbles, eyes flickering over to Rick and back to Daryl. “Never gave a shit.”

Merle isn’t angry about it, isn’t sad. And Daryl wonders if Merle doesn’t think it’s justified, in a way, that Mom and Dad never loved anyone but themselves so why should Merle offer something that was never offered to him. Daryl knows Merle feels, might even know the capacity of it better than Merle himself does and even though it makes the questioned thought irrelevant he can’t help but think it’s what Merle tries to achieve anyway. That hard-cored indifference shrouded in a layer of hate and a near imperceptible layer of pain. 

“Ain’t no one gonna give a shit about Dixons.” Merle says, almost offhandedly.

“I care quite a lot for mine.” Rick’s tone is just as vague, but his eyes more focused than Merle’s ever seem to be.

“Yours?” Merle huffs, his volume low in what Daryl reckons must be an attempt at either secrecy or intimidation. “You trying to lay ownership on my brother?”

“None that isn’t returned.” Rick argues, shakes his head. “None that isn’t wanted.”

Merle licks along his bottom lip, sucks in his cheeks just slightly. “You know what happened to him?”

“Yes.”

“You know what I did to the sum bitch?” It’s more violent, even lower in tone, and Daryl leans forward like a string is pulling him into the danger. He knows it isn’t really there, hangs with the tatters of his tightrope and all the other things he cut to pieces such a long time ago.

“Yes.” Rick echoes, doesn’t rise to the bait at all, keeps his voice steady and even and the exact octave he uses to whisper words of affection into Daryl’s skin.

“Well there’s your warning.” Merle hisses, leaning further forward over the table. “You don’t get a second one.”

“I won’t need either of them.” Rick muses, shrugs his shoulders in honest acceptance. “I’d rather claw out my own eyes than lay a finger on your brother that wasn’t wanted.”

“Your claw out your eyes, I’ll break your teeth.” Daryl says. You can’t have the sunshine without the sky after all.

“You don’t need to warn me.” Rick says, smiles at Daryl but directs the speech at Merle. “We don’t need to fight for him.” Rick’s eyes roll back over to Daryl, and he doesn’t know whether he’s still talking to Merle or himself. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way. “He can protect himself just fine.”

“He’s a Dixon, course he can.” Merle’s says, but the fire’s gone and Daryl’s still endlessly surprised at the level of influence Rick has over things that are usually so un-tamable.

Daryl looks back over to Merle, takes in the haggard features and doesn’t know when they became so old. When experience took time’s job and sped it up tenfold. He can remember Merle when he was younger, the vague pictures cast in a filter too old to be compatible with Daryl’s new memories, and even though it’s unfocused and vague, Daryl knows Merle used to look young, handsome even. It makes him wish Merle had a teacher like Rick, that someone had cared enough back then to notice when a child didn’t want to go home.

“You okay Mer?” He asks, leans his forearms onto the table and rests against them.

“As good as ever.” Merle says, the customary response in the face of concern. “You alright?”

“The best I’ve ever been.”

Merle nods, and Daryl can’t help thinking he looks almost hurt, somewhere beneath the thick layer of resignation. “That down to him.”

“Ye-”

“It’s down to Daryl.” Rick interrupts, in the weirdly kind way he always does. “He controls his own emotions.”

Merle looks over to Rick, and the strange type of assessment that was loading its way through his thought process seems to have made its decision. He nods at Rick instead of at Daryl, and after so many years, Daryl knows that’s the biggest brand of acceptance Rick could ever get.

“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Merle asks, eyes firmly fixed on Daryl and staying there.

“Do you mind?” Daryl asks Rick, reaching just slightly for his hand and clasping onto his fingers instead. 

“I’ll wait outside.” Rick promises, drags his hand through Daryl’s like it hurts to let himself pull away, smiles like he’d take all the pain in the world for Daryl’s happiness. 

Daryl watches him leave, and Merle watches Daryl stare after the stranger that stole his baby brother’s heart. Merle knows he never made Daryl happy, knows he probably made the kid just as sad as their Daddy did. He still liked to think he got the closest, out of everyone, and he’s happy to hand over the reins now he knows someone can actually manage it. It hurts in the most pleasurable way and the rebounded happiness is the best Merle expects himself to have.

“I don’t want to be like him.” Merle says, damn near scraping the skin from his mouth with how acerbic the truth tastes. “You know that, right?”

Daryl shakes his head, too long bangs falling into his eyes. “You’re not.” 

“S’not what you said before.”

“I never thought you were Dad.” Daryl corrects. _Not really_. “You just weren’t quite _Merle_ either.”

Merle shakes his head, glares down at the table and clenches his hands into fists. “If I’d have known what they did-”

“Don’t do that to yourself.” Daryl says, reaches across the table but doesn’t touch, knows that Merle won’t (can’t) accept it. “Don’t do that to _me_.” 

They sit in silence for a little while and Merle’s hands relax with the ticking of the clock, seconds to count down the tension and minutes to count down the hurt. The conversations around them are plentiful and Daryl’s reminded of the last time they sat here, trapped within the same silence they sit in now. He laughs, and Merle throws him a look that's equal parts surprised and confused.

“We’ve come full circle.” Daryl says, and Merle’s laugh is light at the very least.

They both know it isn’t just referencing to the prison. There’s an awful lot of things in their lives that rotate until completion, throw you off balance at any moment and leave you unable to find your center in something that constantly moves. Right now they have a blissful moment of peace, and although Daryl’s stretches far further than Merle’s probably does, Daryl knows he’s going to get there.

“You love him baby brother?” Merle asks suddenly, tilts his head towards the door. 

Daryl nods, because if he starts speaking he won’t be able to shut up.

“Huh.” Merle says, and his smile may be small, but it’s honest and Daryl knows that internal reflection is the hardest thing to find. “Well it’s good to know us Dixons are still capable of that shit.”

When Daryl walks outside Rick is waiting for him. The sun above him falling against every part of him, showing the entire world just how much beauty there is to see. It’s the first time Daryl notices that Rick is illuminated, yet that light still cast shadows onto him. It reminds him of all the times he felt so dark, lets him know that darkness doesn’t mean despair, that things can hit the light as easily as they flit away from it. The sun’s shining on him too, and the warmth feels barren in comparison to Rick’s arms.

Daryl smiles just as Rick does and their footsteps fall into line and mirror each other’s in the least painful way they ever have.

Rick smile blinds him when he turns to face him, and Daryl knows the love that fuels it burns even brighter.

He’s caught flame, but there’s too much of him to be reduced to ashes. Rick’s just as ablaze, and they’ll never hurt each other when they’re one and the same, never burn out and die like bridges so often do.

Daryl thinks love like this will burn forever.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to listen to Shane Alexander's 'Feels Like the End' while I was formatting this because it's so, so sad to be posting the last chapter! Writing, updating, reading and responding to comments, it's all become my life over the past 44 Days and although today has been blissfully relaxing, I kind of missed the frenzy!
> 
> Thank you so much to all those who have commented, bookmarked, kudosed, and just continued to read this story, all of you are amazing! Thank you to my wonderful beta, MermaidSheenaz, who was not given any time to correct this other than her own after it was updated (but did it anyway!) and who has continued to support me even on her holiday!
> 
> I swear that this is fluffy and joyful, there is just a fractional snippet that takes place a week after the last chapter and then we skip forward a year! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Just a quick note to say that Daryl's personality change in the '1 year later' part is very intentional! There is growth we have not seen, and that means changes that may seem drastic but actually had a lot of time to formulate! Thank you! :)
> 
> I tried to make the STI result as realistic as possible while still leaving a happy ending! And I think we got it, so please don't panic! :)

The following week is peaceful.

Daryl’s life is how he always wanted it to be, the very way he never knew he could experience, and though he’d like to say that nothing’s holding him back there’s still one final flaw to fix.

It’s this that encourages him to pile into Rick’s car on Monday night, no worry of being home late while Carl’s at Lori’s. Rick doesn’t understand what they’re doing, barely has any recollection of where they’re going through the first half of the journey, before he starts to slot segments of snippet information together and decipher some viewpoint into Daryl’s thoughts.

They pull up to the remnants of what once was, cinders that seemed so prolific in Daryl’s life and now look like nothing but dust preoccupying empty space.

Rick steps into the house first, waits while Daryl runs the palm of his hand over charred walls and reminds himself of walking through the woods with Maggie, believing that harshness could destroy happiness.

Daryl’s happy now, and he knows this place can’t hurt him at all.

He heads through to Mom’s room, stares at the little urn still present on the floor and wonders if he’d look imposing to Dad, if his shadow and his silhouette would look so much bigger, threat so much more amplified. He knows his silhouette wouldn’t fall that way, because Rick’s behind him and shadows can’t encroach on light.

Dad’s exactly where he left him, and he doesn’t know how that makes him feel.

It felt right to keep Dad contained, but confinement seems a little bit too much like what he did to Daryl, to all of them. It also seems a bit like trapping him in the confines of his own mistakes, painting Mom suicide out to be completely his fault. Even though it probably was, Daryl supposes it could be argued as a fault unto all of them, or maybe solely hers. 

Daryl feels like he’d left Dad in the heart of Mom’s remains, encompassed in a room that looks more like a rib cage, wood burned to the point that it’s unrecognizable, just as Mom had been. The roof’s falling in, couldn’t contain anything if it tried to, but the solitary beam that remains reminds Daryl of a spine, too resilient to be so fragile.

It’s like Mom didn’t burn, her skeleton just transcended into structure.

Daryl has to look down at it for a long while, the idea of holding his Dad in his hands for any particular length of time feeling a little too much like the God he once painted him as. He chews along the inside of his cheek, finally picking it up. He takes a breath, opens the box, shakes it out around the place Daryl can vaguely remember photos residing in. The few happy ones that no one ever saw.

A breeze is culminating through the dilapidated room and the ashes scatter like dandelion seeds. Daryl can’t help but love the fresh finality the wind brings.

Rick comes up behind him, encircles both arms around his waist and burrows his head into the back of his neck, breathes against the fine hair. All the earth’s hurricanes, every tornado or storm that ever existed could never hope to match the magnitude of Rick’s breathing.

It makes him smile and Daryl realizes that he was right, their love will burn; like the metaphorical phoenix rising from the ashes.

 

1 year later – 

 

“Baby Goat, you better have your damn shirt on by the time I get this stupid ass hat on my head, or I swear to God!”

Carl laughs and despite Daryl’s best glower his lips have become flexible enough in their movement to twitch instinctively at such a happy noise. 

Carl’s twelve now, thinks he rules the world as much as the house and Daryl enjoys the freedom he has as much as he himself does. It’s nice to see a child so happy, so carefree, so able to speak their mind with no ridicule but that which is a fair representation of their behavior.

 _'You’re a good Dad._ Daryl thinks, the faded echo of his own voice, one that rings no less clear than it did the day he said it.

He’s seen Rick’s parenting in so many different lights, the well-established yellow tinged shine of the apartment, the sun kissed shadows shading the car, the sterile lighting of the hospital when Carl broke his wrist playing football and Daryl had to calm Rick down from their first collective panic attack in a long time while they were sat in the waiting room. (It was the only time Daryl’s willingly stepped into a hospital.)

And that one time in Hawaii when Daryl had offhandedly mentioned that he’d never left Georgia and Rick had taken that admittance as a challenge. It was a birthday present, and Daryl didn’t tell Rick, but it was the first one of those he’d ever really gotten as well. Not counting the sacrifice of whatever poor guy Merle stole his crossbow from. That was another environment, another memory, taking Carl hunting and helping him hold up the bow, knowing how much of a strain the weight was on arms so undeveloped. 

Rick had been shit at it, Daryl huffing out some comments about his heavy feet and that he ‘wasn’t surprised Shane shot him with a crossbow when he sounded like half the big game round here.’

Rick had nudged him into one of the trees, but the rough bark felt soft as satin under such fun enticement. 

That light had probably been his favorite. When they were walking past the river and he didn’t feel a single call, as if the sirens were always like Michonne and Aaron, always waiting for him to have someone to pull him back to shore because they never really wanted to hurt someone who was already in so much pain. Only willing to pull him away if the shore got to painful, if they truly thought the air was burning his lungs and the water might put out the flames.

It was feeling sticks and stones tear at his clothes but never scrape his skin. Like the age of them made them wise and they finally realized pain was not welcome on skin that was only just becoming used to affection. Maybe even saw that the child they placed in their paradise (tripped up and tormented) didn’t belong to them anymore, that his skin wasn’t theirs to touch and his heart was too whole to enjoy the sounds of it breaking. Even with the way the forest makes such horrible sounds feel so very far away.

Rick makes problems travel further, fixes the hurt instead of echoing it so sparingly no one notices it’s there.

And Carl loves the forest as much as Daryl used to, running with Lacy and shining with a type of happiness Daryl always knew of but never felt when he was here by himself.

Feeling it now makes him realize how little he actually appreciated about the forest, that a lot of the time it was little more than a better alternative to home, rather than the sanctuary he sometimes painted it as. 

It had been a long time ago now, back before Carl’s birthday, and Daryl reminds himself to mention another trip to Rick, maybe take some camping stuff and sleep out under the stars like Merle used to do when he wanted the tiny flicks of light to guide him back home. Maybe tell him where home was first so he wouldn’t get lost.

Lacy bumps into him as she’s walking past, and Daryl knows enough about her perception of distance to know she did it on purpose. She doesn’t look back at him, but she picks up the pace as she trots over to Carl’s room, tail sweeping against the floor with each movement. 

Daryl rolls his eyes at the whole lot of them, knows that even if Carl does have his shirt on he’s going to get it covered in dog hair and they’ll be back at square one. 

He leans down, picks up the stupid square hat that had fallen from its precarious position atop his head. His eyes are drawn to the area behind him when he looks back up, watching Rick walk out of the bedroom while fiddling with the edges of his suit sleeves, trying to pull them together and keep them there so he can get the cuff-link through them. Daryl’s eyes don’t want to leave, and he has to turn round because he isn’t sure the slightly dusty surface of the mirror is doing the picture justice.

It wasn’t.

“Why do you get to look like that and I have to look like a nun?” Daryl asks, chucks the hat onto the counter and leans back against it. 

“This old thing?” Rick says, practically saunters his way up to Daryl like a mountain lion, it doesn’t feel predatory though, just the nicest kind of possessive.

“That suit fits you like a glove.” Daryl says, takes the cuff-links off of Rick and grabs his arm, slots the suit and shirt sleeves together so he can fix the cuff-links in place. He keeps a hold of Rick’s hand, leans forward until he can kiss at his ear. “I want to rip it off with my teeth.”

“I want to keep you covered.” Rick says, runs his hands down the length of Daryl’s arms through the robe. “Those arms are entirely too enticing to stay bare.”

There’s an obnoxious coughing sound from the bedroom and Daryl’s eyes stay firmly on Rick’s even if neither of them can help their smiles. “I can hear you!” Carl hollers, all false indignance and attitude. 

“Then you better have that shirt on like I told you to!” Daryl hollers, the silence that follows a well-established sound of blame, one that makes Daryl’s smile grow even as his eyes try to roll out of their sockets.

“Lacy got hair on it.” Carl shouts, not the slightest bit apologetic but managing to sound sheepish all the same.

“Surprise, surprise.” Rick says, rolling his eyes over exaggeratedly, all in good humor. “The joys of domestic life.”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world.” Daryl muses, keeps a hold of Rick’s sleeve and leans up to kiss him before he can turn away.

“Neither would I.”

It’s mumbled around Daryl’s mouth, but he still hears it loud and clear, lets Rick pull his sleeve from his grasp and reach for his cap, placing it on top of his head perfectly. The smile he leaves Daryl with is closed lipped, an odd one for Rick to choose. Daryl’s eyes flick to his legs, appreciating how bowed they are and wishing they had the time and the privacy to do something appropriate in appreciation. Daryl's eyes flicker back up and Rick's own are the last to leave Daryl, still centered on him as he disappears round the door to Carl’s room. 

And Daryl thinks Rick’s gorgeous.

He turns back to the mirror, eyes flicking up to the hat on the top of his head and sighs.

_‘Fuck.’_

He hears Rick chuckling in the next room, and even though it could be toward whatever mess Carl’s got himself into he think it might be more centered on himself. How the hell was he supposed to know you didn’t put the cap on straight?

He sighs, leans back against the counter and rests his head on the cool surface of the mirror, it knocks the hat off center, but Daryl knows he’ll have Rick to fix it anyway.

Rick’s the core of the house, the glue that binds them all together. He keeps them sane, keeps them safe. He’s a father in every meaning of the world, protective as a mother lion over her cubs and selfless to a fault. 

Carl knows it all as well, tells Daryl all about it when Rick’s busy and the two of them sit down to watch a movie. He doesn’t tell Rick, it’s that idea of awkwardness linked with affection, that telling your parents you love them and appreciate them is a weakness, especially with how old Carl’s getting, just creeping into the teenage years and still looking like such a Baby Goat. Daryl tells him to acknowledge it, that it would make Rick’s day to get a hug, get a smile.

Carl does it a lot of the time, ‘cause even if kind words seem too difficult the kid’s heart is too pure to disregard all types of care.

They love each other so much, and Daryl knows the both of them love him as well. It’s family in all the ways that family could be understood, the happy, soft, excitement of holidays and the worry, hurt, fear of hospitals.

Daryl doesn’t think Rick’s ever held his hand so tight, not even when Daryl used to throw himself from high places and trust those hands to catch him. 

It was just a broken arm, and Daryl knows Carl was going to be fine because he’d been through breaks and fractures in must worse overall conditions and pulled through them just fine. The kid had needed a pin put in, and that might’ve been what was panicking Rick so much, but Daryl knows the clutch of unconsciousness as well as that of pain, and he knows which one is better suited to suffer through.

He’d always hated hospitals, but Rick needed him and Carl needed him and he convinced himself that he’d never have to go back.

It was true, in a way. The only other time he went was for an STI test. 

The whole thing was traumatic, not because the doctors weren’t nice or because the tests themselves were something he couldn’t get over, but the realization that he could be left with something so physical, after dealing with all the mental issues he had and triumphing over them, was horrible. Sometimes there is no victory over illness, not when some of these things can’t be fixed. 

It’s horrible to sit in a waiting room and think you might physically contaminate someone with sex, pass on an illness through intimacy. It's terrible, and even though Daryl knows it’s not the end of the world, the pure feeling is dilapidating. You never notice how completely the physical issues associated with rape can fall to the background of the mental. That everyone who ever used him could’ve left a lot more than self-hatred and self-blame, as if those things weren't enough.

The worst thing was that Rick had to be tested too, that for all the condoms in the world, some of these things could be passed on through basic _contact_. No semen necessary. 

In the end, he had chlamydia. 

Rick doesn’t and that makes the whole thing a little better.

He doesn’t know much about it, and for a little bit, while he’s waiting with Rick for a consultation and holding onto his hand for dear life, he thinks he’s going to be relegated to protective sex for the rest of his life. It’s not a terrible thing, but he never even wanted sex before Rick and wouldn’t it be a cruel blow by the world if the only sexual intimacy he ever wanted was denied of something so small by such a massive list of negatives.

When the doctor comes in and he doesn’t look like he’s about to crush all the hopes Daryl thought to have (now he finally realized good things could come out of that type of expectation) it’s a small relief. It makes him believe that at the very least neither of them are at actual risk of dying. That at least he didn’t risk putting some abstract timer on Rick’s life when Rick worked so hard to extend Daryl’s own.

Rick’s smiling in the corner and Daryl can’t understand how even Rick Grimes can find any happiness in this situation, until the doctor hands him a prescription and tells Daryl to pick it up from the chemist, follow all the instructions and restrain from any unprotected sex until the course is done.

Daryl’s honestly never been happier to take some of Rick’s money and swallow two pills every day.

The Doctor tells Daryl all about it, that it can be transmitted through oral as well as anal sex. That the chances of giving it to someone through genital contact aren’t as high as others but it’s a possibility.

Rick also has a talk to Hershel about the school sex education, because it’s lacking on everything other than where what goes and how to avoid getting pregnant. Knowing that the penis goes into the vagina and a condom will prevent sperm reaching the egg is so much more lacking than kids were led to believe. Where’s the stuff about anal, oral, the fact that even women aren’t always going to magically lubricate themselves enough for your dick, where’s all the information about lube?

And STI’s in particular, something Rick was very sure to stress.

It makes Daryl smile, because he knows there’s also a very extensive section on sexual abuse, and even though the topic’s horrible he’s glad others will be given the chance to understand.

The sex is also brilliant and Daryl never imagined it could get better until _after_ they actually did it without a condom.

Lacy comes running out of Carl’s bedroom, stops when she doesn’t hear the sound of anyone following her and only keeps walking when Rick and Carl appear through the door. Rick’s suit stretches beautifully across his shoulders as he hauls Carl out of his room and Carl’s wearing his baby blue shirt as opposed to the red one he was given this morning. Daryl can’t even be mad at Lacy for ruining the other one, because blue’s always suited Carl best.

It’s those damn Grimes genes, the sky’s always favored them.

“He’s going to be one of those teenagers.” Rick smirks, hefts Carl up higher when he drags his feet along the ground. It would seem petulant, but Carl’s got one of his biggest smiles plastered onto his face and Daryl knows he just really loves messing with them. “The type that never leave their room.”

“Better than alcohol.” Daryl muses.

“Better than alcohol.” Rick echoes, pushes Carl just a little bit so he has to get his own feet under him, Daryl steadying him with a hand to his shoulder. He looks down at the kid, thinks back to all his own alcoholic escapades and wishes he’d had someone to tell him it was a bad idea. 

“Seriously though Baby Goat don’t you even think about it.”

“Why would I?” Carl asks scrunches up his nose and reaches up to flick the edge of Daryl’s hat, watching in satisfaction as it falls to the floor again. “That stuff’s nasty.”

“That’s my boy.” Rick says, proud in every meaning of the word. 

Carl goes to grab Lacy’s lead as Rick bends down to pick up Daryl’s hat, righting himself and brushing Daryl’s bangs to the side until they just scrape the edges of his eyes, placing the cap on top like he wants it to hold them there, settled and perfect. Daryl's hand rises, and he’s sure he intended to shift the stupid cord from his eyes but it heads to Rick instead, wraps a hand around the back of his neck until Rick takes the initiative to kiss him.

It’s as gentle as the very first, and Daryl loves the way this new cycle is a beautiful as a dandelion's own.

“I can’t believe you’re graduating.” Rick whispers, trails a hand down the front of Daryl’s robe like he needs the physicality of fabric to believe in his own words.

“I know I’m not the smartest person in the world but I thought you had more faith in me than that, Mr Grimes.” It’s like a damn purr, and Rick wishes he’d been able to make noises that attractive when he was Daryl’s age. There’s something about Daryl that’s as old as it is young, mature and childish in the very best ways. 

“I think this is the only day in this whole relationship that I love you calling me that.”

“After today, I’m not your student.” Daryl leans back into the counter, fits his finger through Rick’s belt loop until he moves in towards him. “Then I can call you Mr Grimes as much as I like.”

Rick smiles, flicks the cord of Daryl’s cap to the back of his head so it doesn’t restrict his view. “Of course you can sweetheart.” 

Daryl bites his lip, and Rick can’t mind it anymore, not when he knows it expresses nothing but pleasure and the pressure is never hard enough to hurt. Daryl’s hand moves from Rick’s belt loop, trailing over the buttons of his shirt, tracing the uneven edge where jacket meets waistcoat. The tie’s a deep burgundy, almost mahogany in the light, and Daryl’s reminded of wine, richness and sweetness and the most intoxicant inducing after taste Daryl can imagine.

The suit suits Rick, to say the least.

He wouldn’t have thought it, had he seen it first. Daryl would’ve thought it too dark, maybe picked out a steel grey or a dark blue to set off his eyes. If anything it amplifies them, the contrast, one absorbing all light from the room so the other can illuminate it. It also makes his stubble look more grey than usual, and Daryl loves the way stars shine along his jawline when silver catches the light.

“I always had faith in you, you know.” Rick says, constellations shifting. “Right from the very beginning.”

Daryl smiles. “Our bad beginning.” 

“Lead to a beautiful life.” Rick muses, purses his lips and sucks in his cheeks in a way that makes Daryl want to kiss him. “And prompts hopes of a happy ending.”

“Never change,” Daryl breathes, presses a kiss to the corner of Rick’s mouth, pulls always when Rick tries to tempt him closer. “Not a single thing. I’ll love Rick Grimes forever.”

“What about when I’m old?” Rick smirks, but there’s some tiny fraction of lingering sadness to it, the resignation towards the inevitable. Daryl laughs at it, and despite his apparent crisis Rick can’t help but mirror it. “It’s gonna happen, I’m older than you!”

“I want you to have a beard.” Daryl says, no nonsense, running a hand over Rick’s stubble and imagining the feel of it all over his thighs. “Sat out on a porch watching Carl play with his kids.” Rick smiles, and Daryl knows it’s a secret that he really wants a granddaughter, grandson, a little Lacy grand puppy, so long as it means he can watch Carl be a father to something. “We’ll sit Lacy down with you, the two oldies together.”

Lacy’s 6 at the moment, and Rick knows a dog her size won’t live far past 17 at the absolute best. The times won’t co-align quite as Daryl wants them too, but the thought of it is a lovely one none the less, and maybe they will have puppies from her, so that even when she’s gone they’ll have a little Lacy. Do the whole thing again so Carl can have a Lacy with him too, one for when he moves out, be it alone or with a nice girl (or a nice boy, but he hasn’t shown any inclination of liking anything other than girls. If he does, Rick sure as hell isn’t one to judge him).

Daryl smiles, presses chaste little kisses along the collar of his suit. “We’ll be happy. The family will grow and we’ll know it’s healthy because Carl will be a damn good Dad after growing up with one of his own.”

“Two of his own.” Rick corrects, rubs his jaw against Daryl’s cheekbone and revels in the shiver, the man made blush it leaves once he pulls back. “You know he thinks of you like a father.”

“More like a friend.”

“As far as I’m concerned those two should be much in the same.”

“I love both of you.” Carl says, blows hair upwards from his lips to shift his bangs out of his eyes. He rolls them, wraps Lacy’s lead around his hand and brushes a stray section of hair from his shirt. “Now can we go?”

Rick and Daryl share one of their newly accustomed long suffering looks, but the pure happiness radiating off of the lot of them cancels out a lot of the false exasperation. The teenage years are set to be difficult, and Daryl knows he wasn’t nearly as much of a bad example as he could’ve been because of the downright fear. He did the drink, he experienced the dilapidating feel of drugs, but it all seemed like necessity. Something about the way he grew into it made it feel like duty rather than any such lack of responsibility.

He knows Rick’s worried about it, sees the horror stories and thinks ‘what if’. What if I haven’t taught him enough, what if he ends up hating me, what if this happens to him or that happens to him. 

Daryl knows it will be alright, has seen kids that grow into addictions as soon as they outgrow teddy bears and knows that Carl has his morals firmly set, and his guidelines laid out with all the love and care in the world by someone who wants nothing more than to see him happy. 

Carl’s gonna be fine. They’re all going to be fine. 

‘Fine’ is, after all, only the very lowest expectation Daryl has any more. His predictions are more accurate, stretch further, and they're what tell Daryl that they're going to be happy.

The trip to the car is the usual mismatched effort of trying to get them all into the lift, avoiding any clothes, limbs (or God forbid, Lacy’s tail) from getting trapped in the doors. Daryl feels like an idiot as they walk to the car, but other residents see the family and smile, a smile that only widens when they take notice of what Daryl’s wearing. They whisper congratulations in the way he used to tell secrets and Daryl smiles at how far something so close to silence has come. 

“I want to sit in the front!” Carl says, trying to hand Lacy over to Daryl so he can get in.

Rick shakes his head, takes Lacy from him and puts her in the back. “It’s Daryl’s graduation, he can’t get dog hair all over him and you're already covered in it."

“He’s got fleas anyway.” Carl huffs, unaffected by the way Daryl glowers at him.

“If anything in this car has fleas it’s your mangy ass mutt.” Daryl says, sliding into the passenger seat as Rick shifts Carl into the back. “And we all know who she got ‘em from."

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carl asks, hand over his heart in mock offence.

“Baby Goats are always infested with fleas.” Daryl says, Carl’s smile lighting up the damn wind mirror despite his best effort to hold it back.

The trip to graduation itself goes quickly, and despite Carl’s brief annoyance over having to keep Lacy on her lead (one that Daryl agreed with but wasn’t going to say 'cause what type of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t back up his man?) they manage to get across the school field to the set up stage easily enough as well.

There’s a mess of blue and yellow scattering the field, inter-spaced with other, less vibrant colors that don’t grab nearly as much of the residual attention as Daryl would like. Pupils, teachers and parents are swarming, and Daryl wonders if anyone finds it odd that he showed up with Rick just as Maggie shows up in front of him and drags him away from all his worries, as well as the person best established at elevating them in the first place.

He can’t help noticing that Rick’s the hottest person here, and Daryl can’t wait until he can lay claim on him properly. There are a few woman looking, but Carl’s doing a very good job of making it look like Rick’s married, or at least in some form of committed relationship.

Daryl can’t even feel guilty about it, not when it’s the truth.

“Can you believe we’re graduating?” Maggie shouts, partly through excitement but mainly just to be heard over the cacophony of noise coming from the mass of pupils around them.

Daryl motions to his ears and rolls his eyes, because as much as he thinks he made out enough of that sentence to understand the meaning he doesn’t think he could do it again. Maggie rolls her eyes in response, jabs a hand into his side that Daryl barely shifts at and pulls her and Glenn’s linked hands in front of her as if in some form of question.

The furrow of his brow is the only answer he can accurately give, so Maggie just grabs his hand and links it through her own, holding onto the both of them with tight grips as they walk to their seats. They have to split up, and Daryl (for all his new found comfort towards public displays of affection) has to look to the side while the two of them kiss, eyes locking on Rick’s own and wishing he could walk right over to the place he’s sat and kiss him, maybe straddle his lap and give the whole place a show.

But Carl’s sat right beside him and Lacy’s wrapped round his legs and Daryl sure as hell isn’t going to jeopardize Rick’s career after spending so long helping him protect it.

He’s pulled away by Maggie anyway, Glenn walking to one of the back rows and waving at both of them as he sits down. Maggie pulls him to the front, sits him down in his chair and climbs over the one next to him in order to sit in her own. She’s one row behind and one seat to the left, and the comfort of having her _right there_ is still as extraordinary as the very first day she was there for him. 

Hershel’s speech is amazing, as is the one Rick gives on behalf of the teaching body (which certainly wasn’t planned because Rick wasn’t even supposed to be doing a speech). He smiles in all the right places, encourages the original speaker to calm down from whatever frenzy she’d gotten herself into and manages to get her on stage to deliver the last segment of the speech she’d obviously spent a long time preparing.

Daryl’s smiling ear to ear, as he always is when he sees the pure goodness that envelops every aspect of Rick’s personality. It doesn’t mean his nail isn’t a casualty, that the moment when speeches stop and names are called doesn’t prompt him to bite against desensitized skin a little harder than usual. 

Their row has to stand, and Daryl can see both Maggie smiling encouragingly from her own row and Rick smiling from his, just as brightly even from further away. He makes a movement with his hand, encouraging Daryl to stop biting along his skin and it’s the only reason Daryl’s hand isn’t covered in spit when his name is called.

“Daryl Dixon.” Hershel says, and the clapping of others and the loud sounds of encouragement from Maggie, Glenn, Beth, Aaron and Michonne, as well as several others that must be associated with them in some way, means he isn’t even ashamed of the last name.

Rick doesn’t shout, knows it wouldn’t be appropriate, but he’s still smiling the brightest, his clap ringing the loudest, and Daryl knows he really wants to stand.

“See how far somewhere can go?” Hershel asks, mouth away from the microphone so only Daryl can hear him, handing him the diploma as he had all the other students and shaking his hand with a firm grip.

“You gave me somewhere.” Daryl says, smiles.

“I did give you somewhere.” Hershel agrees, looking out into the crowd just briefly until Daryl’s eyes flicker in that direction, aligning on Rick like they really do have nowhere else to look. “Rick gave you home.”

Daryl looks back to Hershel, fiddles with the ribbon on the scroll just slightly. “Thank you.”

Hershel smiles. “You’re very welcome Daryl.”

Filing back to his seat is easier than standing up from it was and as he walks down the steps he can see Carl stood on his chair, no doubt doing everything Rick wants to do but can’t for the sake of appearances. He waves at Daryl, motion so excited some of the other parents scowl at him. Daryl waves back regardless, more muted, but there.

Watching his friends receive their own diploma’s gives him the strangest sense of pride, and Daryl wonders if him and Rick will do this one day for Carl, first for high school and maybe even for college if he decides to go that far. Daryl recons he will, knows the Grimes’ are some of the smartest people he’s ever met and the world deserves to benefit from it. 

He also mentally backtracks on his question of ‘if’. No room for questions when Daryl already knows the answers.

Maggie and Glenn have latched back onto him by the time everyone’s finished and getting ready to toss their caps. It’s cliché, and it’s done every year, but there’s still something so special in watching so many fall from the sky, evidence of so many different people, different lives that are moving on and growing up and going somewhere. Maggie and Glenn kiss again, and though Daryl doesn’t stare he doesn’t turn away either. There’s nothing awkward in their love just as there’s nothing awkward in his.

It’s as the caps are just settling that Daryl spots Rick, stood at the edge of the crowd and slightly separate from the gaggle of teachers and parents, further back into the field. He’s watching Daryl, eyes locked, only moving to check on Carl and Lacy as they run around the outer edge of the grass.

Daryl doesn’t know why he does it, but the distance between the two of them isn’t nearly enough to prevent him moving closer, too large to stop him feeling the absence and wanting to do something about it. He walks across, doesn’t even notice people looking at him, and throws his arms around Rick’s neck, holds on as tight as he can. Rick’s stiff for a moment, but even his worry can’t deny the inevitable urge to relax into all that sustains him, such a large part of the family that keeps him moving.

Whispers start up around them, and Daryl knows he should pull back but just can’t manage it. 

A weight settles over his side just as another clasps to the opposite one, and Daryl raises his head to see Maggie and Glenn folding themselves into the hug. Other students start to wander over, obviously thinking it’s some kind of group hug, maybe a ‘Rick Grimes Appreciation’ moment. The whispers fade off into laughs, and as more people pile into the hug Maggie and Glenn shield them enough to let Daryl’s head fold back into Rick’s neck and kiss the skin there.

Within the safe security blanket of his students, Rick can bury his head into Daryl’s hair and breathe in the scent of him, almost certain he can still feel yellow gems tickling his cheek from an all too natural crown.

Eventually, people start to drift away, those closer to the center fading out with quiet little utterings of ‘Thank you Mr Grimes.’

Rick looks like he sort of wants to cry and Daryl can’t believe he could teach so many people, touch so many of their lives and more of them didn’t get swept away in everything Rick Grimes is.

The two of them round up Carl and Lacy, goodbyes said to all those who care to hear them before piling into the car again.

“Where do you want to go Daryl?” Rick asks, trying his best to pull out of the car park past the mass of people crossing the road, he waves to Hershel, Maggie and Glenn as they drive away and Daryl watches their smiles fade for a long time before he turns back around.

He doesn’t really know, and his gaze flicks to Carl in the wing mirror before looking back to Rick. Rick shakes his head at him, knows he was planning on giving the choice over to Carl and denies it before he can try to.

“It’s your day.” He stresses, turns off onto the main road in a very specific direction and the both of them know where they’re going before Daryl even says it. “Where do you want to go?”

Daryl licks a line across his bottom lip as he watches the world blur, smiles over at Rick. “The field.”

“What field?” Carl asks, hand stilling in Lacy’s fur as he moves forward to look at Daryl. 

“You’ve never taken him?” Daryl asks, looks at Rick in complete shock. 

They’d never gone with Carl through the year they’d been together, but Daryl had been so sure Rick must’ve taken him before. It seemed natural that he’d share something so special with the people close to him, and Daryl still doesn’t know how he ever thought their feelings towards each other didn’t go far further back than either of them originally realized. 

“I never had a reason to go again before you.” Rick admits, shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal that he consistently makes Daryl’s heart want to keep beating.

Daryl looks at Rick’s profile for a while, but can’t find any words to add. He looks back to Carl instead, smiles over his shoulder at him. “You’re gonna love it kid, Lacy sure as hell does.”

When they do get to the field Carl pretty worn out from the walk over, the overall busy day not helping matters. Daryl smiles at Rick as Carl lags behind, both of them stopping and waiting for him to catch up so Rick can patiently untangle Lacy’s lead from his hands and Daryl can crouch down in front of him, back to Carl and arms out to steady him.

“C’mon Baby Goat.” Daryl says, crouches down even further when Carl hesitates. “Hop on.”

Carl rests a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, pulls his shirt out from his pants so the fabric doesn’t pull too tight. He hops on and Daryl makes a show of struggling to stand, hears Rick’s huffed laughter in the distance. It makes the whole thing worthwhile, even if Carl does little more than try to glower at him.

“Jesus, what they hell have you had to eat, kid?”

“I’m not heavy, you’re just weak.” Carl quips, and Daryl’s laughter would echo if the open sky didn’t steal it for itself.

Daryl turns in the direction that Rick’s walking in, watches the muscles in his back ripple through the white of his shirt as he throws Lacy a stick, the way sweat glistens on sun kissed skin through the sliver exposed by undone buttons. His jacket, tie and waistcoat were deposited in the car, and Daryl can’t decide which version he likes more, this rumpled sophistication or the clean cut lines of elegance that had graced him earlier. He’ll happily have both if that’s what’s offered.

“I’m really proud of you Daryl.” Carl says, head lolling forward slightly onto his shoulder as his arms cling to his neck. 

Daryl laughs, thinks of the proud little smiles Rick’s been sending him all day. “Have I ever told you that you’re just like your Dad, kid?” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Nah.” Daryl says, shakes his head and laughs when Carl has to shift his own, strands of Daryl’s hair falling over Carl’s cheek like spider webs. They don’t stick all that much, and Carl doesn’t look like he’d have minded if they had. “Biggest compliment I could give.”

The dandelions are just turning white again, the field a beautiful mix of greens and golds and whites that make Daryl feel cleansed. He doesn’t need to be anymore, not when Rick’s already wiped away all the lingering remnants of dirt, but natures always had a funny way of rejuvenating him, washing away negativity and leaving new born emotions in its place.

“You’re not.” Carl says suddenly, Daryl tilting his head back to him slightly.

“What?”

“You’re not like your Dad.” Carl clarifies, fiddles with the hands that rest underneath Daryl’s chin.

“You didn’t know my Dad, Baby Goat.” Daryl says, whisper soft and so close to breathless even when Daryl isn’t choking around his air’s departure. His eyes flicker back over to Rick, watches the way he’s watching them and can’t help but smile.

“I wouldn’t have wanted to.” Carl decides, after a moment of silent contemplation, that’s another thing that reminds Daryl of Rick, the ability to halt words and think them through. “But I’m glad I know you.”

“That’s a difference?” Daryl asks, shifts Carl a little higher onto his back so he can’t fall.

“Everything about you is a difference.” Carl says, no hesitation this time, words falling as easily as water through the air, no jagged rocks to slow the decent and prompt harsh words instead of ones so kind. “You’d never hurt Lacy.”

“Does that really mean much?”

“Hurting animals is the precursor to hurting people.” It’s Rick’s textbook recital, the type of words that sound scripted but remain too founded to be anything but self-beliefs. “You wouldn’t hurt me either, you’ve never hurt me or Dad.”

They fall silent again and Carl pats Daryl’s shoulder until his feet are carefully placed back onto the floor, Daryl turning round to face him while he’s still balanced on his knees, liking that Carl can look down at him for a change and he can still feel all the respect in the world being pinpointed to him. It never ceases to amaze Daryl, the pure level of which Carl can accept and understand everything around him. The mutual respect Daryl can show back is as prolific as that given to him, and that’s part of the reason behind it.

Carl hugs him, turns his head so he can whisper into Daryl’s ear, little silent secrets that don’t hurt like the ones Daryl used to keep.

“You’re a good Dad, Daryl.” 

He walks off as soon as he’s said it, picks the stick up before Rick can get to it and throws it for Lacy, motioning back at Daryl and staring Rick down until he begins to move over. Daryl stays crouched, and Rick sits beside him, shifting Daryl until his head rests in his laps and Rick can hold gold woven hair up to the sun that graced it with the light. 

“I love you.” Rick says and Daryl realizes it’s probably the most frequent thing they ever say to each other.

He’d have to be mad to want it any other way.

“I love you too.”

Happiness hits Daryl so gently, less a train and more the ever present gust of air that follows its movements. It takes him a while to realize that the gentleness is naught but a reminder, that he’s held happiness in his hands for a long time. Maybe it just wants to let him know it’s not going anywhere, or maybe it’s reaching for the being that prompted it, created it, sustained it, while Daryl was still trying to figure out what it was. It doesn’t matter either way, so long as it found them and and doesn't want to leave.

Daryl looks up at Rick, watches the way his stubble turns grey in the light and knows love like this will last until that color is real, till momentary ageing is permanent. He loves him so much, and the very idea that Rick loves him back threatens to split the horizon, throw the very world off it's axis.

And anyone who thinks the world won’t fold for love had obviously never heard of this, the way the sky met the ocean, and tidal waves cradled the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone who has supported me on this. It's been a long month and a half of forcing myself to write at least a chapter every day before a new one was uploaded, and possibly failing my exams is a small price to pay for seeing the happiness people have expressed when reading this! :)
> 
> I hope you have all enjoyed this story, and that the continuous metaphors and vague references to chapters that had been and gone for weeks before I mentioned them again were okay as well! 
> 
> It's been a long 170000 words, but I've enjoyed every minute of it if only for the amount of joy you guys say you get when reading! 
> 
> This one was for you! - A little message from me, on behalf of 'the little one-shot that could'.

**Author's Note:**

> Rape/Non-con - Previously consensual, but kind of dub-con then as well. Not explicit, much more implied.
> 
> Attempted Prostitution - Daryl offers Rick sex in an effort to pass, Rick does not accept the offer. (But sex will happen later)
> 
> Enjoy.


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